t 


1 


o 


When  a  desert  man  drifts  into  a  strange  town 
he  takes  no  letters  of  introduction  and  there's 
no  one  to  vouch  for  him.  Over  his  after-dinner 
cigareet  in  the  Mesa  Hotel  office,  he  drops  a 
casual  remark  as  to  the  trail  by  which  he  entered 
town  and  the  name  of  the  last  town  he  left,  and 
the  ice  begins  to  melt.  Mutual  friends  are  dis 
covered,  reminiscences  follow,  and  he  is  identi 
fied. 

Howdy,  Stranger!  I  come  from  the  town 
o'  Golden  Spur,  on  the  edge  of  that  Desert  over 
yonder. 


THE  LAND 
WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

SKETCHES  OF  THE  AMERICAN  DESERT 


^^^  e,  L.  >• 

ORVILLE  H.  LEONARD     \  2 


BOSTON 

SHERMAN,  FRENCH  &  COMPANY 
1917 


COPYRIGHT,  1917 
SHERMAN,  FRENCH  «5r»  COMPANT 


30 
Bancroft  Library 


TO  THE  WILL-O'-THE-WISP  OF  THE  DESERT 

AND 
TO  THOSE  WHO  FOLLOW  HIS  LIGHT 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

DO  YOU  REMEMBER 3 

OVER  THE  CIGAREETS 

THE  GREASER 9 

A  DEAL  IN  LEATHER  .   . 14 

REVERSION  .   .   .....   .   .   .  18 

A  NEVADA  IDYL  .   .   .   ,   .   .   .   .  24 

BOOTLEG  .   ...   .   .   i   *   .   .  28 

RECONCILIATION    ....    v.      .      .      .  31 

His  BEST  BELOVED  SON  ......  37 

A  SKINNER'S  DAY       .      .      «      .      .'      .      .  44 

ASPIRATION       .      .•    .      .      .      .      .      ^     .  51 

THE    SKINNER       ......      .'=     .  53 

ON  AND  OFF  THE  TRAIL 

CIVILIZATION    .      .      .      .      ...      .      .  57 

DAWN    ...........  60 

COMPENSATION       ........  62 

A  DESERT  GARDEN      .      ......  64 

SURVIVAL  OF  THE  UNFIT  .      ...      .      .      .68 

IGNORANCE       .........  71 

PATIENCE .      .      .      .  74 

THROUGH  A  WINDOW  .      ...      .      .      .  76 

VARIETY     ,      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .77 

FRIENDS  OF  MINE 

THE   FORTY-NINESS     . 81 

A  MISSOURI  MEERSCHAUM      .     '.      .      .      .  85 

PINON         .      .      .      .      .      .      v     .      .      .  88 

FOR  SHERIFF ...  92 

THAT  COUNTRY  OVER  THERE     .\   .      .      .  101 

THE  MINER     .                                                    ,  105 


PAGE 

GOPHER  HOLES .          108 

LOST   OPPORTUNITY    .      .      .      .      .      .      .    112 

PROSPECTIN' '...'.    114 

DRY  COLORS 

AL  DESIERTO 119 

A  DESERT  DAY     ........  121 

A  DESERT  NIGHT       .......  124 

THIRST        .      .      .      .      .      ....      .  126 

THE  PAINT-BOX f      .      .  128 

HANGMAN'S  TREE        .......  129 

TALKING  WATER  AND  WHISPERING 
WIND 

RUNNING  WATER 135 

THE  RECKLESS  DESERT  WIND     t-    .      .      .    137 

A   MESSAGE      .  138 

THE  WOOING  WIND 140 

THE  WIND  IN  THE  SAGE  .  .  .  »  .  .142 
WHAT  THE  WIND  WHISPERED  .  .  .  .145 

DESERT  SPECIMENS 

I'M  GOING  TO  THAT  COUNTRY  OVER  THERE  149 
THE  BARK  OF  THE  COYOTE  .  .  .  .  .152 
DESERT  CHILDREN  .......  154 

GOBS  AND  HOBGOBS 

THE  INDIAN  AND  THE  PRINCESS  .      .      .      .159 

MOUNTAIN  Music        .      .      .      .     .      .      .    163 

NIMROD       .....      .      .      .     .      .      .    165 

DESERT  WITCHCRAFT        ......    168 

WILL-O'-THE-WISP  ,    170 


PINE  AND  CHAPARRAL  pAOK 

GROWING  PAINS 175 

PINES 176 

A    MAGIC    PLUME 178 

A  SILVER  SUNSET 180 

HEAT 183 

GOLD 185 

NIGHT         189 

A  SANITARIUM 191 

SUNSHINE   HILL    .             193 

WHERE  THE  GULCHES  RUN  WITH  RAIN 

DROUGHT    .      ... 197 

A  MINER'S  LAMENT   .      ....*.  199 

CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE    .      ...      .  200 

A  TOAST                                                            .  203 


SALUTATIONS 


PREFACE 

Stranger,  I  ain't  no  naturalist 

An'  I  ain't  no  poet,  either, 

But,  by  the  great  horned  toad  o'  the  desert, 

I  ain't  no  liar,  neither. 

O'  course,  I  follered  the  Will-o'-the-Wisp, 
An'  I  heered  the  fairies  sing. 
Didn't  I  see  the  Injun  shoot, 
An'  his  hawk  with  a  broken  wing? 

In  the  mountains  I've  seen  the  dawnin' 
An'  felt  somethin'  inside  me  swell, 
Jist  like  flowers  a-bloomin' 
Deep  down  in  my  ole  think-well. 

So  I  reckon  that  the  desert 

Is  both  Hell  an'  Paradise. 

It  all  depends  on  the  way  you  look, 

An'  the  focus  o'  your  eyes. 

There's  a  whole  lot  more  o'  beauty 
In  the  world  than  we  mostly  git, 
Because  we're  jist  plain  worryin' 
Or  tryin'  to  raise  our  bet. 


So  when  the  world  looks  blackest 
Jist  ride  by  yourself  a  spell, 
An',  p'rhaps,  if  you  hunt  fer  beauty 
'Twon't  seem  quite  so  much  like  Hell. 

But,  Stranger,  we'll  quit  moralizin'. 

Here's  my  final  yell. 
I  couldn't  a-done  this  book  alone, 
So  I  told  these  yarns  to  Elisabeth  Bowen- 

Say,  ain't  she  done  it  well  1 


A  HIGH  SIGN  TO  THE  READER  AT  THE 
CROSSING  OF  THE  TRAILS 

Howdy!  I've  just  pulled  my  freight  from 
the  Desert  and  I'm  hitting  the  trail  for  That 
Country  Over  There. 

News  of  the  Desert?     Some. 

Already  I  am  missing  it  —  I  did  not  realize 
how  much  of  desert  air  I  had  inhaled  till  after  I 
had  left  it.  Here  is  some  of  it  expelled  in 
short,  quick  gasps. 

Stranger,  you'd  be  surprised  at  some  of  the 
things  that  go  on  in  the  Desert,  for  there's  a 
bunch  of  shacks  here  and  there  on  its  edge  where 
there's  comedy  and  tragedy,  thrift  and  laziness, 
just  as  there  is  anywhere  else.  And  the  Will- 
o'-the-Wisp  is  there.  Many  I've  seen  pursuing 
him  eagerly,  determinedly.  Besides,  I've  fol 
lowed  him  myself.  And  in  the  desert  moun 
tains  the  Indian  fairies  live  —  I  can  hear  them 
singing  even  now.  Nonsense?  Look  here, 
Stranger,  once  when  I  told  a  grave  and  matter- 
of-fact  engineer  that  I  had  heard  the  fairies 
singing  in  the  mountains,  he  nodded  understand- 
ingly  and  said  he  had  heard  them,  also.  There 
are  too  few  fairies  nowadays  —  they  have 


mostly  been  killed  off  or  run  out  into  the  wild 
spots,  where  you  have  to  go  to  find  them.  It's 
always  the  open  season  on  fairies. 

There's  one  thing  the  Desert  does  for  a  man 
—  it  makes  him  feel  so  infernally  small,  except 
when  he's  lit  up,  and  then  he  feels  bigger  there 
than  anywhere  else,  for  he  has  more  room  to 
ramp  round  in.  He  feels  small  because  he  has 
a  great,  big,  empty  world  to  lose  himself  in,  and 
by  depending  upon  himself  he  finds  he  amounts 
to  just  what  he  can  do  with  his  two  hands.  And 
the  Desert  helps  a  chap  to  look  on  the  little 
things  of  life  in  a  bigger  way.  And  there's  an 
other  thing;  a  man  gets  a  chance  to  take  him 
self  aside  and  talk  to  himself,  and  that's  a  thing 
we  don't  do  any  too  much,  except  old  Desert 
Rats,  and  they  talk  to  themselves  all  the  time. 
There  are  no  signs  of  warning  in  the  Desert,  no 
morals  and  no  messages.  I  reckon  a  real  mes 
sage  is  an  illuminating  thought,  but,  Stranger, 
if  you  find  by  chance  a  single  one  along  this 
trail,  it  will  not  be  painted  on  a  rock.  It  lies, 
my  Desert,  east  of  the  Sierras,  in  The  Land 
Where  The  Sunsets  Go.  There  may  be  hotter 
deserts,  but  all  of  desert  life  seems  centered 
there,  even  to  the  Desert  Rats.  Oh,  yes,  I  know 
a  desert  is  supposed  to  hold  no  living  thing,  but 
even  in  Death  Valley  there  are  fleas ! 

Stranger,  if  you're  an  old  timer  in  the  Desert 
and  these  whiffs  of  desert  air  bring  you  one 


bright  memory  of  a  vivid,  blazing  day  gone 
by,  or  if  you  are  from  the  crowded  places  and 
you  feel  a  touch  of  warm,  clean  desert  wind  for 
a  moment  on  your  cheek,  that  will  be  bueno. 

ORVILLE  H.  LEONARD 
January  1917 
California 


DESERT  MONOTONY 

'Tis  but  a  jump  from  hottest  hell 

To  where  the  high  snow  flies. 

'Tis  but  a  step  from  a  poison  well 

To  where  sweet  water  lies. 

And  in  the  desert  they  both  may  dwell 

'Twixt  dawn  and  the  next  sunrise. 

Leave  for  a  time,  O  my  brother, 
Your  ledgers  and  profits  and  things. 
Come  away  from  the  city's  smother 
To  the  land  where  the  air  has  wings, 
And  you'll  find  in  this  land,  or  another, 
The  calm  that  wide  solitude  brings. 

And  grimness  may  ride  close  beside  you 

Out  here  where  the  desert  winds  blow, 

And  hunger  and  thirst  may  betide  you, 

And  profit  may  follow  you  slow, 

But  there'll  bloom  all  the  soul  that's  inside  you 

In  The  Land  Where  The  Bright  Sunsets  Go. 


DO  YOU  REMEMBER? 


DO  YOU  REMEMBER? 

Do  you  remember  your  infant  self  when  you 
were  a  lad  of  five,  when  it  seemed  that  your 
Daddy  was  made  of  pelf  and  the  biggest,  finest 
being  alive?  And  do  you  remember  how  long 
the  day  when  your  Daddy  told  you  at  breakfast 
time  that  he  would  bring  you  some  longed-for 
treasure  when  he  came  home  at  night,  and  how 
you  lived  in  the  happy  thought,  crossed  with 
fears  that  he  might  forget?  How  the  speeding 
minutes  stretched  out  to  years  and  your  eager 
thoughts,  'twixt  hopes  and  fears,  wondered,  "  Is 
it  night  yet? "  And  do  you  remember  how 
bright  the  world,  though  lamps  were  lighted  and 
pink  clouds  curled  where  the  sun  had  said  Good 
Night,  when  a  wonderful  being  came  striding  in 
like  a  god,  or  Davy  Crockett,  with  a  teasing, 
whimsical  smile  on  his  face,  but  his  hand  in  his 
deep  coat  pocket,  and  do  you  believe  the  prom 
ise  of  Heaven  could  bring  to  you  the  joy  that 
you  felt  when  you  knew  that  your  Daddy'd  re 
membered,  when  you  were  a  little  boy  ?  Or  how, 
in  nighty  and  bare  of  foot,  you  stood  at  the  old 
stair-head  listening  in  darkness  and  misery  to 
the  laughter  and  music  down  below,  for  you  had 
been  sent  to  bed?  If  you  can  remember  all  this, 
3 


4       THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

do  you  think  that  the  uttermost  pains  of  Hell 
could  more  than  equal  what  you  suffered  when 
you  looked  down  that  old  stair-well?  And  do 
you  remember  the  lights  and  shadows,  the  days 
that  were  gladsome  or  blue  —  but  whichever  the 
kind,  they  would  last  forever,  and  that  you  cer 
tainly  knew? 

And  do  you  remember  your  beautiful  sweet 
heart  when  you  were  the  ripe  age  of  seven  and 
she  was  just  three  days  older,  how  the  whole  bot 
tom  dropped  out  of  Heaven  when  she  turned 
on  you  the  cold  shoulder  and  smiled  on  a  boy 
of  eleven? 

And  do  you  remember  when  Sam  was  the 
marshal  and  you  were  the  desperado,  how  he 
chased  you  over  the  desert  hot  till  he  lost  you 
in  a  tornado,  and  how,  from  the  cover  of  sand, 
you  shot  him  with  a  sling-shot  gun  and  a  pebble- 
ball,  and  when  you  had  grazed  his  head  and 
"  got  'im,"  you  didn't  like  blood  at  all? 

You  have  heard  fierce  tales  of  desert  carnage, 
of  lives  that  were  bright  and  sad,  but  the  desert 
was  fiercer,  its  men  were  bolder,  to  you  when  a 
little  lad.  And  do  you  remember  the  wild,  bad 
bronco  that  you  had  roped  on  the  plains,  what 
a  bold  buckaroo  you  pictured  yourself  as  you 
pulled  hard  on  the  reins,  and  how,  as  you 
roweled  with  home-made  spurs  and  gave  him 
command  to  "  steady,"  you  saw  him  not  as 
your  own  meek  pony,  and  that  he  had  been 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       5 

gentled  already?  And  when,  with  a  child's 
small  shovel  and  pick,  you  placered  the  brook 
for  gold,  and  found  in  the  dark  old  swimming 
hole  a  rusty  gun,  its  usefulness  done,  do  you 
remember  the  joy  untold  it  gave  to  you,  little 
Shiner?  More  than  gold  to  any  miner!  Do 
you  remember  the  heights  and  depths  you 
reached  in  one  short  day's  span,  how  you  ran 
the  whole  gamut  of  joys  and  fears  when  you 
were  a  little  man? 

It  is  sweet  sometimes  to  recall  those  days 
with  their  bright,  high  lights,  their  shadows, 
too,  for  love  was  about  you  to  keep  those  shad 
ows  from  stretching  across  the  blue.  But  how 
deep  they  looked,  how  dense  that  shadow,  how 
white  that  light,  for  life  was  all  misery  or  all 
joy  when  you  were  a  little  boy. 

And  do  you  remember  how,  as  a  man,  you 
wandered  afar  and  saw  strange  things,  how 
lying  under  the  desert  star  you  felt  the  pull  of 
the  homing  strings  ?  For  you'd  seen  the  desert 
of  boyhood  dreams  and,  over  the  mountains,  a 
softer  clime  where  grew  big  pines,  where  flowed 
swift  streams  down  gulches  where  the  nugget 
gold  held  an  alloy  you  never  dreamed  that  it 
could  hold,  for  you  were  sure  all  gold  was  pure 
when  you  were  a  little  boy. 


OVER  THE  CIGAREETS 


THE  GREASER 

Far  above  my  little  shack,  perched  on  the 
very  verge  of  an  old  mine  dump,  I  could  hear  his 
mules'  bells  tinkling  long  before  he  came  into 
clear  vision  round  a  jutting  ridge,  and  high 
above  the  tinkling  of  those  bells,  could  hear  the 
tones  of  his  soft  southern  voice,  urging,  plead 
ing,  swearing,  to  keep  them  moving,  keep  them 
in  the  trail,  for  a  mule  will  climb  either  up  or 
down,  and  never  heed  his  heavy  load,  to  munch 
some  juicy  tuft  of  grass  that  his  sharp  eyes 
have  spied.  The  packer  bore  a  good,  round 
English  name,  Horace  Older,  and  to  all  the 
mines  in  those  wild,  lonely  mountains  he  packed 
pinon  pine  for  fuel  on  the  backs  of  his  little 
mules.  The  steep  and  shaly  canon  slopes  form 
mighty  sounding  boards,  and  so  I  know  he's 
coming  before  he  drives  into  sight  six  little 
mules,  each  with  his  pinon  load,  and  the  packer 
behind  on  his  old  white  mare. 

The  desert  has  its  voices,  like  the  sea,  but 
they  are  different.  I  have  lain  upon  a  sandy 
beach,  no  human  form  in  sight  for  miles,  which 
ever  way  the  eye  might  turn,  and  heard  foot- 
9 


10     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

steps  and  faint,  whispering  sounds  —  footsteps 
that  never  came.  But  in  the  desert  mountains 
I  hear  music,  perhaps  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
who  knows?  And  surely  if  it  ever  might  be 
heard,  'twould  be  in  those  clear,  high  spaces. 
To  me  it  seems  that  one  who  lives  alone  in  these 
wild  hills,  with  rocks  and  brush,  with  sun  for 
company  by  day,  and  sky  that's  very  clear  and 
close  by  night,  grows  something  new  within  him 
self,  that  comes  unbidden,  unannounced,  that 
makes  him  over  new.  He  may  not  know  it  at 
the  time,  but  when  he  goes  back  to  his  kind,  he's 
never  quite  the  same. 

But  here's  my  packer  almost  at  my  door,  and 
I  have  gone  wool-gathering  while  I  watched  his 
train  wind  slowly  down  the  narrow  curving  trail, 
each  mule  with  its  wooden  burden.  That  wood 
is  packed  from  far  across  the  range,  from  its 
farther  side  where  stunted  pinons  grow,  grip 
ping  their  hardy  roots  into  the  steep  rock  slope. 

Horace  brings  the  last  mule  to  a  stop  in  the 
space  beside  the  shack  and  climbs  out  of  his  sad 
dle  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  His  large,  round, 
laughing  black  eyes  are  set  in  a  full-moon  face. 
A  thick  lock  of  jet  black  hair  always  threatens 
one  eye,  and  a  close  cropped  black  mustache 
shades  his  full  red  Mexican  lips  that  speak  bet 
ter  English  than  those  of  many  of  his  Saxon 
brothers.  His  anatomy,  above  his  belt,  is  try 
ing  to  escape  its  bounds,  for  he  looks  fat  and 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     11 

pudding-soft,  but  he  will  ride  the  trail  by  day 
and  night  for  weeks  on  end.  He  is  gladly  wel 
comed,  for  he  is  always  good  company  and 
brings  the  news  of  every  solitary  prospector, 
every  desert  happening.  After  beans  and  cof 
fee  we  sit  on  the  bench  outside  with  our  pipes 
and  gaze  on  the  floor  of  the  desert,  three  thou 
sand  feet  below.  Across  that  shifting  waste  of 
sand,  upon  its  farther  rim,  a  tiny  oasis  of  green 
glows  vividly  beneath  the  mountains'  steep  gray 
walls.  It  is  the  City  of  Pifion  Pine. 

Horace's  mother  was  a  Mexican,  his  father 
was  a  Briton.  His  sense  of  humor  is  keen,  and 
none  of  the  vengefulness  or  sulkiness  of  his  race 
has  ever  blossomed  in  him  —  he  is  all  sun  and 
laughter,  and  he  speaks  even  of  his  own  family's 
wrongs  at  white  men's  hands  with  the  dispas 
sionate  speech  of  a  cool  spectator.  His  pas 
sionate  speech  is  all  saved  up  for  "  those  damn 
mules,"  but  if  you  see  him  with  his  foot  against 
the  belly  of  a  sulky  mule,  a  cinch  strap  in  both 
hands,  a  stream  of  lurid  talk  in  two  languages 
coming  from  his  lips,  his  hat  in  the  sand,  and  his 
black,  coarse  hair  hanging  down  in  his  eyes, 
if  you  see  him  thus,  and  speak  to  him,  he  an 
swers  with  a  genial  smile  and  a  flash  of  all  his 
strong,  white  teeth.  He  loves  a  shot  of  hooch, 
and  when  he's  all  shot  up,  his  squaw  will  beat 
him  and  throw  him  out  of  the  tepee  to  sleep  it 
off  in  the  sand.  He  draws  no  knife  under  such 


12     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

punishment,  but  is  meek  and  acquiescent  and 
tells  about  it  later  with  a  sheepish  grin. 

When  the  pipes  were  going  strong,  he  pointed 
across  the  desert  to  that  spot  of  vivid  color, 
set  like  a  green  wafer  in  the  yellow  sand. 

"  That  spot's  where  I  was  born,  and  Mexi 
cans  were  thick  then  in  this  desert,  though  it's 
only  forty  years  ago.  Americans  were  new  in 
the  country  and  when,  one  day,  a  white  man  was 
killed,  a  Mexican  was  accused.  Then  they  got 
together  a  Vigilance  Committee  and  decreed 
that  the  Mexicans  must  all  leave  town, —  by 
noon,  the  day  following  the  decree,  there  must 
not  be  a  single  Mexican  left  in  it.  I  was  a  lad 
of  ten,  and  my  mother  ran  a  little  bakery  across 
from  the  big  saloon.  The  Mexicans  lay  low, 
kept  out  of  the  way  all  they  could  that  night, 
but  three  Mexicans  were  walking  down  the  street 
when  there  was  a  shot,  and  the  Vigilantes 
poured  out.  They  saw  the  Mexicans  and 
chased  them  up  to  my  mother's  door  which  was 
on  a  level  with  the  street.  The  Mexicans  threw 
themselves  against  the  door,  burst  it  in,  then 
shut  and  barricaded  it.  And  then  the  bullets 
flew.  They  came  splitting  through  the  door 
panels,  and  we  threw  ourselves  flat  on  the  floor, 
so  the  bullets  went  over  our  heads,  all  but  one 
—  the  one  that  killed  my  little  sister.  Later  in 
the  night  my  people  left  the  town.  The  Mexi 
cans  all  hit  the  trails  for  the  desert  in  a  hurry 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      13 

and  by  midnight  there  wasn't  one  of  'em  left  in 
Pinon  Pine. 

"  The  decree  took  effect  at  noon  of  the  next 
day,  but  at  sunup,  Steve  Ridley,  one  of  the 
Vigilantes,  rode  out  into  the  desert  with  a  forty- 
five  in  each  hand.  He  rode  for  miles  away  from 
Pinon  Pine  until  he  met  the  last  three  Mexi 
cans  walking  along  through  the  deep  sand  with 
all  the  household  stuff  they  could  carry  —  all 
that  they  had  left  from  the  homes  they  were 
driven  out  of  —  and  Steve  Ridley  shot  'em  all 
dead  as  they  tramped  ahead  of  him. 

"  He  lives  now  on  a  big  desert  ranch  he  owns, 
ten  miles  from  Pinon  Pine,  and  is  very  much  re 
spected." 


A  DEAL  IN  LEATHER 

He  was  not  desert  born  nor  bred,  but  in  those 
sunny,  rocky  hills  where  once  the  placer  miner 
set  all  the  world  agog.  There  the  cattle  browse 
amid  the  brush,  where  once  stood  thick-sown 
pines ;  there  the  great  day  of  the  rocker  and  the 
sluice-box  has  gone  by,  for  the  rancher  and  the 
cattleman  are  minting  surer  gold.  And  Jerry 
was  a  cattleman,  and  at  his  birth  I'm  sure  he 
was  "  all  dressed  "  in  leather  chaps  and  jingling 
Mexican  spurs.  There,  in  his  own  home  land, 
I  met  him  and  felt  an  instant  liking  for  the 
little  buckaroo. 

You  know  those  gray  eyes  with  a  touch  of 
green  in  them  that  can  look  so  sober  and  so 
devilish?  Jerry's  eyes  were  like  that,  and  they 
could  look  dangerous.  He  was  small,  slender, 
active,  and  the  most  generous  heart  alive. 
There  are  some  people  who  seem  to  take  a  cer 
tain  character  from  their  very  names,  and  there 
are  fewer  who  give  their  names  a  meaning  of 
their  own,  despite  all  our  previous  associations 
connected  with  those  names.  Jerry  was  of 
these. 

I  was  riding  with  him  on  one  of  his  horses  to 
14 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     15 

help  him  bring  up  a  mare  from  the  pasture  be 
low  town.  The  poor  animal  had  cut  her  foreleg 
badly  with  barbed  wire  and  we  were  going  to 
take  her  where  she  could  be  treated  near  home. 

"  That  damn  bronco  you're  ridin'  don't  walk 
as  he  does  when  I'm  on  him.  Hoocha !  " 

He  gave  the  cowboy  cry  and  brought  his 
quirt  down  across  my  horse's  withers,  grinning 
wickedly  as  the  spirited  animal  danced  me  over 
the  road.  Just  then  an  old  fellow  passed  us 
riding  an  old  gray  mule. 

"  Notice  that  ole  cuss  ?  That's  ole  man 
Jackson  who  used  to  keep  store  down  to  Ulano 
when  I  was  a  youngster.  Me  an'  my  pardner, 
Pete  Galligan,  was  herdin'  cattle  out  in  the  hills, 
a  long  way  from  Ulano,  an'  one  day  Pete  was 
goin'  to  the  City  an',  as  I  needed  a  new  pair 
o'  boots,  I  give  Pete  the  money  an'  asked  him  ter 
bring  me  back  a  pair,  which  he  done.  Along  in 
the  fall,  when  my  cow-punchin'  was  over  fer  the 
season,  I  come  in  ter  Ulano  an'  asked  Jackson 
fer  my  store  bill,  cause  I'd  just  been  paid  off 
fer  the  season  an'  wanted  ter  settle  up  my  bills 
before  any  o'  them  poker  sharps  down  ter  the 
saloon  pried  my  roll  loose.  Jackson  took  a 
long  time  ter  make  out  my  bill,  fer  the  damn  ole 
cuss  was  slow  as  the  Devil,  but  finally  he  handed 
it  ter  me  an'  I  looked  it  over  careful. 

"<  That's  all  right,  Mr.  Jackson,'  says  I, 
6  all  but  that  pair  o'  boots.  I  ain't  had  none 


16      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

o'  you,  I  know,  'cause  I  been  up  in  the  hills  all 
season,  an'  Pete  brought  me  a  pair  from  the 
City  an'  I  paid  him  fer  'em.' 

"  '  It's  down  on  the  bill,  ain't  it?  '  says  he. 

"  '  Yes,  it's  on  the  bill,  but  I  ain't  had  'em.' 

"  '  Well,  my  book  is  got  you  charged  with  a 
pair  o'  boots,  an'  it  wouldn't  be  down  there  if 
you  hadn't  got  'em.' 

"  '  But  I  tell  you  I  ain't  been  near  this  town, 
an'  the  only  boots  I  got  is  what  Pete  brung  me.' 

"  '  Can't  help  that.  The  book  says  you  had 
'em.' 

"  «  Well,'  I  says,  '  here,  I'll  pay  my  bill,  all 
but  fer  them  boots,  but  I'll  be  damned  if  I  pay 
fer  them.' 

"  So  I  paid  him  and  he  receipted,  on  account. 

"  'Bout  a  week  later,  as  my  Dad  was  drivin' 
by  the  store,  ole  Jackson  come  out  an'  says, 

"  '  Say,  Mr.  Howard,  that  boy  o'  yourn  don't 
pay  his  bills.' 

"'He  don't,  eh?     What  about  it ?' 

"  '  Well,  he  got  a  pair  o'  boots  in  here  —  I 
know,  'cause  it's  down  on  my  book  —  an'  now 
he  says  he  won't  settle  fer  'em.' 

"  '  I'll  see  to  it,'  says  Dad. 

"  When  he  come  home,  him  an'  me  had  a 
set-to,  an'  it  resulted  in  my  payin'  Jackson's 
bill,  but  I  was  pretty  sore. 

"  A  little  after  that  I  was  in  the  store  with 
Tom  Laden,  who  was  buyin'  a  lot  o'  stuff,  over- 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      17 

alls,  sacks,  grub,  and  a  pair  o'  boots.  'Bout 
the  time  Jackson  had  finished  waitin'  on  Tom, 
another  customer  come  in,  an'  the  ole  man  went 
behind  the  counter  ter  make  change  fer  him. 
Tom  was  puttin'  on  his  new  boots,  fer  his  others 
was  pretty  well  wore  out. 

"  '  How  much  was  them  boots,  Jerry?  ' 
"'That's  all  right,  Tom,'  says  I.  'They 
was  $4.50,  but  I  paid  fer  'em  some  time  ago. 
You  just  walk  up  ter  the  counter  an'  pay  fer 
the  other  stuff,  an'  ole  Jackson  won't  never  see 
them  boots.' 

"  Tom  done  it,  an'  the  ole  man  never  see  his 
feet,  'cause  he  was  behind  the  counter,  so  he 
took  the  money  fer  the  other  things  Tom 
bought,  an'  we  beat  it.  Course,  /  didn't  get 
my  money  back,  but  I  made  the  ole  sun  of  a 
gun  ante  up  fer  them  boots.  Damn  his  hide! 
I  wouldn't  be  sittin'  comf'table  in  the  saddle 
now  if  I  hadn't  squared  that  deal." 


REVERSION 

On  a  shaly  slope,  far  up  the  mountain,  there 
lies  a  lonely  grave.  The  brilliant  sunlight 
bathes  it  ever,  save  when  night  shuts  in,  and  then 
the  stars  come  down  so  close  they  seem  almost 
to  touch  the  rude  cross,  made  of  two  thin 
boards,  where  his  head  rests.  Just  above  it  a 
gozzan  crops,  that  capped,  he  used  to  swear,  a 
ledge  of  wealth  untold.  A  foot  over  his  head, 
a  little  zigzag  trail  leads  to  a  seepage  well  set 
in  the  bottom  of  a  narrow  canon,  a  scant  half 
mile  above.  Beneath  his  feet,  a  quarter-mile 
below,  the  canon  winds,  bathed  ever  in  black 
shadow,  and  high  above  the  trail  that  skirts  his 
grave,  the  steep  old  ore  grade  runs  around  a 
bend,  then  over  a  high  saddle,  flanked  by  two 
mighty  buttes,  to  the  fierce  and  savage  land  be 
yond.  From  the  slopes  of  those  high  buttes, 
the  tops  of  lofty  ranges,  like  the  crests  of  giant 
petrified  waves,  melt  into  the  far  distance.  Be 
yond  that  melting  distance  lies  Death  Valley, 
crouching  and  waiting,  silent,  terrible.  The 
hawks  by  day  fly  far  above,  the  coyotes  yap  at 
night,  and  rattlers  coil,  and  lizards  sleep  in  the 
sunny  glare  on  that  little  mound  of  sand  —  and 
18 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      19 

that  is  all  of  life.  And  over  all,  a  parching  sun, 
and  everywhere,  just  rocks  and  sand  and  desert 
weeds  and  brush.  In  Mexico  he  worked  mines 
to  their  owners'  glad  relief,  and  other  places 
knew  him  to  his  credit  —  but  he  always  came 
back.  He  spent  his  life  to  hold  this  land  where 
he  is  laid  away.  He  gave  up  all  the  other  lands 
he  owned  to  hold  this  one  bare  tract,  and  lived 
alone  in  the  big  redwood  bunkhouse,  his  nearest 
neighbor  many  miles  away,  except  for  three  ig 
norant  miners  lately  come. 

That  bunkhouse  was  his  pride.  When  the 
mines  were  booming  in  the  good  old  days,  its 
every  finished  stick  was  packed  on  mule  back 
from  the  western  coast.  Chemist,  scientist,  and 
scholar,  this  land  of  beauty  in  its  very  desola 
tion  had  claimed  Aymer's  love  and,  therefore, 
his  attendance.  Trips  to  the  cities  of  either 
coast,  on  carefully  hoarded  money,  had  been 
of  no  avail,  for  it  was  in  that  bitter  time,  that 
time  of  fasting  and  distress  for  miners  when 
wildcat  mining  schemes  had  sent  investors' 
money  glimmering  — "  no  more  for  them."  So 
he  came  back  and  lived  here  all  alone,  upon  one 
meal  a  day,  and  he  was  eighty  then.  On  his 
nearest  neighbor,  many  miles  away,  he  had  laid 
one  last  request,  that  should  he  be  found  dead 
upon  his  claims,  they'd  bury  him  upon  the 
sunny  slope.  So  there  he  is  today. 

Miners  are  superstitious,  and  they  say  that 


20     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

at  dusk  they've  seen  his  tall  gray  ghost  walking 
about  the  trails,  or  in  the  doorway  of  his  old 
redwood  bunkhouse.  They  say  he  beckons 
them,  to  tell  them  where  to  dig  to  find  the  pre 
cious  minerals  that  he  ever  swore  were  there. 
We  found  in  his  rough  pine  board  desk  the  lit 
tle  diary  which  he  kept  from  day  to  day,  giving 
the  petty  details  of  the  lonely  man,  with  all  his 
time  to  spend. 

"  Today  I  mended  the  north  trail,  that  last 
week's  storm  had  gullied  out." 

"  Today  I  found  a  piece  of  float  and  assayed 
it.  It  went  $53.26  per  ton.  Tomorrow  I  am 
going  to  follow  it  up/' 

"  Last  night,  I  spent  all  night  in  patching  up 
the  back  wall  of  the  kitchen.  The  storm  had 
washed  big  bowlders  down  against  it,  broken  it 
through,  and  water  was  pouring  in.  Patched  the 
wall,  went  out  and  deflected  the  water  into  the 
canon,  repaired  the  roof  where  the  rain  had  ripped 
some  shingles  off.  At  dawn  I  went  to  bed." 

"  This  morning,  an  hour  after  dawn,  with  my 
glasses  I  saw  Pete  and  Frenchy  at  the  collar  of 
their  shaft.  It  is  a  long  way  from  here,  but,  at 
that  distance,  I  can  see  a  smile  on  a  man's  face  — 
with  these  glasses.  They  were  acting  queerly  and 
seemed  hurried,  which  is  strange  for  them.  After 
looking  all  around,  they  shouldered  two  heavy 
looking  sacks  and  took  the  upper  trail  that  leads 
into  the  desert,  seven  miles  above  the  canon  road 
that  leads  to  Piute  Springs.  I  did  not  see  their 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      21 

Indian  partner,  Pancho.  Strange  —  tomorrow  I 
am  going  over  to  investigate,  for  drills  and  single 
jacks  were  scattered  all  about.  They  left  them 
so,  and  I  do  not  like  the  looks  I  saw  upon  their 
brutal  faces.  I  would  go  today,  but  I  am  feeling 
strangely  weak.  Why  did  Pete  and  Frenchy  take 
the  trail  to  Malapai  Canon?  It  holds  no  living 
thing  and  opens  on  to  the  desert,  where  there  is 
no  town,  not  even  a  single  dobe  shack.  It  troubles 
me,  this  matter." 

And  then,  next  day,  we  found  him,  sitting  be 
fore  his  little  redwood  table.  Everything  in 
that  bunkhouse  was  of  redwood  —  even  the 
shingles  dripped  blood  when  it  rained.  His 
brown  old  face  was  resting  on  his  arms,  and  al 
most  touching  them,  the  untasted  bowl  of  por 
ridge  that  he  would  never  eat.  We  buried  him 
where  he  wished  to  lie.  And  then  we  found  that 
diary  and  when  we  came  to  that  last  entry  we 
hunted  up  his  windlass  rope  and  started  for  the 
shaft  of  those  three  Desert  Rats.  Their  wind 
lass  was  still  over  the  shaft,  but  no  windlass 
rope  was  on  it,  as  we  could  see  from  Aymer's 
house  with  his  powerful  foreign  glasses.  And  I 
found  out  why  no  rope  was  there  when  I  reached 
that  hole  and  was  let  down  slowly  by  my  friend 
on  the  rope  that  we  had  brought.  Their  rope 
was  lying  in  snaky  loops  at  the  bottom  of  the 
hole,  and  something  else  was  lying  there,  face 
down,  with  a  big  rock  on  its  back.  It  was 


22      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

Pancho,  breathing,  but  far  gone.  I  bound  him 
to  the  rope  and  we  hauled  him  up  to  daylight 
and  laid  him  gently  by  the  collar  of  the  shaft. 
With  fiery  whiskey,  forced  between  his  lips,  we 
brought  him  back  to  consciousness  for  a  mo 
ment.  He  had  lain  in  that  hole  for  a  day  and 
a  night  and  part  of  another  day  with  a  broken 
back,  but  the  one  flash  of  clear  vision,  which 
seems  to  come  to  all  of  us  just  before  death,  was 
his,  and  he  opened  his  big  black  eyes  and  looked 
with  keenly  seeing  glance  around  the  shaft 
mouth. 

"  See !  —  no  —  rock  —  near  —  edge.     Pete 

—  an'  —  French  —  drop  —  rock  —  kill  —  me 

—  get  —  my  —  share  —  thirty  —  thousan*  — 
dollar." 

Both  the  Indian  and  Mexican  in  him  combined 
their  wills  to  name  his  enemies  and  their  deed 
with  one  last  straining  effort  of  his  breath,  for 
then  he  died. 

We  left  Pancho  where  he  lay  and  took  the 
trail  to  Malapai  Canon.  We  had  one  gun  be 
tween  us  and  I,  my  heavy  quirt,  but  none  of 
these  was  needed,  for  where  the  trail  dips  down 
a  short,  steep  slope  of  shifting  shale  into  the 
canon  bed,  we  found  Frenchy  lying  upon  his 
back,  a  big  hole  in  his  chest.  His  sack  was  gone 
and  he  was  past  all  help,  so  we  pushed  on,  not 
up  the  canon,  for  it  ran  for  miles  that  way,  then 
brought  up  short  against  a  sheer  rock  wall. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     23 

No,  we  headed  down  the  canon  toward  the  des 
ert,  and  then  we  saw  a  laden  sack  upon  the 
rock,  and  then  beyond  a  bend,  a  mile  below,  we 
saw  a  crumpled  heap,  and  in  its  hand  that  other 
sack  was  clutched  —  but  Pete  was  dead.  His 
wound  was  in  his  back.  We  never  knew  that 
story  save  what  those  pictures  told. 

Later,  we  left  with  Pancho's  squaw,  in  Piute 
Springs,  those  sacks. 

We  buried  Pancho  on  his  claim,  not  far  from 
that  deep  shaft,  and  as  we  rode  down  the  canon 
bed,  after  our  gruesome  duties  done,  we  halted 
for  a  moment  to  look  back  before  a  jutting  but 
tress  of  the  canon  wall  should  blot  that  picture 
out.  Aymer's  rugged  gozzan  loomed  above  his 
little  cross,  and  Pancho's  cross  was  there,  but 
lower  down.  The  lizards  darted  among  the 
rocks,  while  sharp  and  crackling,  like  derisive 
laughter,  came  the  yapping  of  a  coyote  from 
behind  old  Aymer's  shack. 

The  desert  had  come  again  into  its  own. 


A  NEVADA  IDYL 

It  was  in  a  land  so  thirsty  that  in  freighting 
a  barrel  of  whiskey  twenty-five  miles  over  the 
desert,  seven-eighths  of  the  alcohol  was  replaced 
with  water  —  curious  changes  take  place  in  the 
desert  —  albeit  the  whiskey  did  not  belong  to 
the  freighter ;  in  a  land  where  Indian  women  go 
bathing  in  the  lakes,  when  there  are  any,  in  na 
ture's  garb,  quite  unashamed,  and  care  not  for 
the  white  man's  eye ;  in  a  land  where  the  Hang 
man's  Tree  supported  some  fifteen  human  beings 
by  the  neck  for  the  good  and  safety  of  the  state 
•no  longer  ago  than  when  we  were  boys :  a  savage 
land  where  nature  so  quickly  wrests  her  own 
from  struggling  man  that  where  forty  years  ago 
dwelt  five  thousand  souls,  where  twenty  saloons 
kept  open  house  all  night,  where  music,  dancing, 
drunkenness,  sudden  wealth,  and  sudden  death 
ran  riot,  there  is  nothing  left  to  tell  the  tale. 
No  vestige  even  of  the  saloons,  shacks,  or  other 
human  activities ;  only  the  coyote  who  lurks 
ever  upon  the  fringe  of  human  habitation  and 
barks  and  yaps  at  night,  whose  eerie  chatter 
sounds  like  savage  laughter,  "  I  am  only  a  dog, 
but  I  have  outlived  you;  you  were  transients, 
24 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      25 

but  this  is  my  home,  and  I've  come  back  into  my 
own." 

Only  a  mile  from  this  scene,  in  the  shadow  of 
the  bunkhouse,  Lew  McManus,  with  an  Irish 
name,  but  a  Mormon  heart,  squatted  on  his 
heels,  his  weak,  good-natured  face  bearing  a 
reminiscent  smile.  Too  weak  for  a  dangerous 
bad  man  and  really  too  good  at  heart,  he  was 
only  an  inconsequent  Desert  Rat.  At  one  time 
a  precocious  horse  thief,  then  he  became,  after 
the  sheriff  had  let  up  on  him,  a  cow-puncher, 
rancher,  miner,  and  finally  a  locator  of  claims 
in  the  vicinity  of  mines  where  a  boom  might 
some  day  start.  The  desert  is  full  of  such 
dreamers,  and  how  they  all  live,  God  only  knows  ! 
He  had  a  desert-bred  wife,  and  two  small  chil 
dren  camped  nearby  waiting  for  Dad  to  bring 
home  some  dinner,  and  while  they  waited,  he 
squatted  on  his  heels  and  told  me. 

"  I  was  in  a  saloon  over  in  Nevayda  one  time. 
The  room  was  plumb  full  an'  there  was  a  big 
bulldawg  there  what  belonged  ter  the  barkeep. 
This  here  barkeep  was  some  proud  of  that  there 
pup  an'  claimed  that  he  could  jest  naturally 
lick  anything  he  ever  come  acrost.  Well,  while 
we  was  all  standin'  an'  settin'  'round,  drinkin', 
chewin'  the  rag,  an'  some  playin'  cards,  in  comes 
a  Dago  with  a  monkey.  The  little  cuss  warn't 
more'n  ten  or  twelve  inches  long,  an'  soon  as  he 
come  in,  the  bulldawg  begun  ter  show  signs  of 


26      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

bein'  right  onfriendly.  Barkeep  warns  the 
Dago,  and  says  he, 

"  '  Ginney,  watch  out  fer  your  monk,  er  my 
dawg  will  eat  him  up.' 

"  Says  the  Dago,  '  Dog  no  eata  da  monk. 
Monk  licka  da  dog  quick ! ' 

"Well,  Sir,  the  fellers  settin'  an'  standin' 
'round  heerd  this,  an'  in  them  days  money  was 
easy  when  it  come  ter  a  game  or  any  kind  of  a 
showdown,  so  they  arranged  ter  put  the  money 
agin  the  dawg.  Mr.  Dago  he  showed  willin', 
but  says  he, 

"  '  My  monk,  he  fighta  with  two  little  stick  — 
that  alia  right?' 

"  They  all  agreed  ter  let  the  monk  have  his 
two  little  sticks  —  they  was  only  a  few  inches 
long,  like  two  little  drumsticks  —  an'  after  the 
barkeep  had  put  up  his  fifty  dollars  on  his 
dawg,  they  all  stood  back  an'  brought  the  dawg 
an'  monk  inter  the  middle  of  the  ring.  Well, 
Sir,  the  minute  that  little  cuss  seen  that  bull 
pup,  he  gives  one  spring,  landin'  right  behind 
the  dawg's  head,  between  his  head  and  shoulders, 
an'  with  one  of  them  little  drumsticks  in  each 
hand  he  begun  ter  beat  that  pup's  skull  so  fast 
—  jest  like  he  was  beatin'  a  drum  —  that  them 
little  sticks  looked  like  the  spokes  of  a  racin' 
sulky  in  action.  That  there  hound  acted  like 
he'd  discovered  a  hornet's  nest  inside  his  skull, 
fer  he  run  'round  like  the  Devil  was  after  him, 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      37 

knockin'  men  over,  under  tables,  in  circles,  with 
the  monk  stickin'  tight  ter  his  neck,  an'  them 
two  little  sticks  goin'  like  mad.  The  bulldawg 
couldn't  reach  Mr.  Monk  with  his  teeth,  an', 
anyway,  I  reckon  he  was  too  dazed  ter  map  out 
a  plan  of  action.  Well,  Sir,  in  about  two  min 
utes  there  warn't  no  more  fight  left  in  that  there 
dawg  than  in  this  here  doodle-bug  I  jest  put  my 
hoof  on,  an'  when  they  clawed  that  little  monk 
off  the  dawg's  back,  he  had  them  little  sticks 
gripped  tight,  an'  his  little  eyes  was  snappin' 
like  a  rattlesnake's. 

"  The  Dago  got  his  fifty  all  right.  Yes,  Sir, 
yer  see  some  funny  things  piroutin'  'round  this 
here  country." 


BOOTLEG 

If  you  take  some  plain  wood  alcohol  and  add 
a  generous  dose  of  water  in  which  cigar  stumps 
have  been  stewed  till  it's  rich  and  brown,  then 
add  a  little  pepper  to  give  it  the  proper  tang, 
the  result  is  bootleg  whiskey,  which  is  supplied 
you  as  a  favor  in  districts  that  are  dry.  It  is 
a  very  simple  receipt  and  there  are  a  dozen 
more,  but  this  will  serve  as  a  sample  of  the  home 
distiller's  art.  More  accidents,  murders, 
broken  health,  and  death  from  the  desert  heat 
are  chargeable  to  this  deadly  stuff  than  we  can 
ever  know,  and  yet  its  makers  can  always  count 
on  their  victims'  sure  support. 

•  •*.... 

He  stumbled  into  the  desert  town,  for  he  could 
not  stand  upright,  leading  one  little  burro,  while 
another  trailed  behind.  He  was  a  big  and 
husky  man,  but  his  heavy  shoulders  drooped,  his 
eyes  were  narrowed  to  a  slit,  his  tongue  was 
swollen  till  it  filled  his  mouth,  and  when  he 
spied  the  wooden  trough  where  the  desert  horses 
drink,  he  kneeled  against  it  and  plunged  his 
head  in  the  tepid  water  till  we  had  to  pull  him 
28 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     29 

away.  And  when  he  could  speak  for  gasping 
breath,  his  thickened  tongue  mumbled  out, 

"  Go  hunt  up  Jack.  I  left  him  out  in  the 
desert  about  twelve  mile.  When  we  hit  the 
desert  below  the  pass,  we'd  a  little  water  left. 
That  lasted  about  to  Soda  Springs,  but  we 
couldn't  fill  up  there,  so  we  hiked  along,  an' 
pretty  soon  we  must  have  missed  the  trail.  An' 
then  we  got  kinder  loco  an'  our  tongues  begun 
ter  swell,  but  I  kep5  a  tol'able  rein  on  me,  fer 
Jack  went  ravin'  wild  an'  he  cussed  the  sand  an' 
cussed  the  sky  an'  damned  the  blazin'  sun  an' 
shook  his  two  fists  at  the  air  an'  cussed  an' 
cussed  an'  cussed.  An'  then  he  run  ter  his 
burro  an'  hunted  through  his  pack  till  he  found 
a  bottle  o'  bootleg  that  he'd  hid  out  from  me. 
He  tilted  that  bottle  till  it  stood  straight  up, 
an'  drunk  an'  drunk  an'  drunk,  an'  as  soon  as  he 
had  drawed  his  breath,  he  tilted  it  some  more. 
I  had  jist  enough  senses  left  ter  leave  the  damn 
stuff  be,  an'  I  tried  to  make  him  quit  it,  too,  but 
'twarn't  no  manner  o'  use.  He'd  got  that  bot 
tle  at  Poison  Springs,  an'  he'd  jist  come  off  a 
spree.  An'  then  the  burros  broke  away,  and 
down  in  that  hot  sand  Jack  was  a  settin', 
drinkin'  an'  singin'  little  foolish  songs.  I 
couldn't  carry  him,  nary  foot.  I  could  only 
walk,  myself,  an'  I  thinks  I'll  hit  the  trail  some- 
wheres  an'  send  back  ter  bring  him  in." 

He  had  forgotten,  when  he  told  his  tale,  that 


30     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

he'd  led  his  burro  in,  his  partner's  following 
on  behind  —  but  perhaps  he  did  not  know. 

"  An'  I  wandered  all  that  afternoon,  an'  all 
one  hellish  night,  a  stumblin',  crawlin',  fallin' 
down,  an'  all  this  hell  of  a  day.  I  didn't  know 
where  I  was  at,  I  jist  follered  my  nose,  an'  hiked. 
I  wasn't  keepin'  ter  no  beat  trail,  plumb  instinct 
brung  me  here,  an'  poor  ole  Jack  is  out  there 
yet,  so  you  jist  find  him  pronto." 

A  dozen  horsemen  saddled  quick  and  took  to 
the  desert  floor,  tracking  the  miner's  weaving 
steps  till  they  saw  in  the  distance  a  darker  hud 
dle  against  the  yellow  sands.  When  they  rode 
close,  they  saw  a  man  beneath  a  big  sage-bush. 
He  lay  on  the  flat  of  his  big,  broad  back,  his 
blackened  face  to  the  sky,  while  high  in  the  air 
two  big  buzzards  floated  lazily.  His  right  hand 
clutched  an  empty  bottle  —  he  had  drunk  his 
last  bootleg. 


RECONCILIATION 

The  talk  was  on  sudden  death. 

He  was  an  old  miner,  my  nearest  neighbor  in 
the  mountains  overlooking  the  desert,  and 
though  his  tall  figure  was  slightly  bent,  his  wide- 
open,  steady,  steel-gray  eye  —  a  sharpshooter's 
eye  —  was  youthful  in  its  keenness  of  vision, 
withal  it  had  a  look  of  childlike  wonderment  at 
times,  and  ever  a  kindly  humor. 

"  There  was  a  young  feller  I  knew  back  in 
Coloraydo  —  he'd  shot  a  feller  who'd  swore  ter 
kill  him,  an'  when  this  bad  hombre  run  fer  his 
Winchester,  this  young  feller  I'm  speakin'  of 
run  faster,  got  ter  his  first  an'  pumped  seven 
bullets  inter  this  other  feller  at  close  range  — 
not  more'n  thirty  foot.  One  bullet  would  a 
done  the  work,  but  this  young  friend  o'  mine  was 
so  excited  that  he  didn't  know  what  he  was 
doin'.  O'  course,  he  got  off  on  the  plea  o' 
self-defense,  which  was  right,  but  after  that,  at 
night,  he'd  sit  on  the  edge  o'  his  bunk,  lookin' 
down  sorrowful  like,  an'  when  I'd  ask  him  how 
things  come,  he'd  tell  me, 

"  '  I  can't  seem  to  git  the  thought  out  o'  my 
mind  that  I've  killed  a  man,  even  if  'twas  in  self- 
defense.' 

31 


32     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

"  Then  I  tells  him,  « What  you  want  ter  do, 
Ed,  is  to  git  out  o'  this  house  where  the  thing 
happened  an'  where  you're  all  the  time  livin' 
over  it  an'  seein'  him  'round.  You  want  ter  git 
out  where  they's  people  an'  fergit  it.' 

"  He  went,  but  I  don't  know  how  it  ever  come 
out  with  him. 

"  I  seen  enough  an'  I  don't  never  want  ter  use 
my  gun  if  I  can  git  out  o'  it,  fer  it's  a  awful 
thing  ter  feel  that  a  man  might  be  livin'  this  min 
ute  but  fer  you,  even  when  it  was  a  question  o' 
self-defense.  I  was  some  hot-headed  myself 
when  I  was  a  kid,  but  I  don't  never  want  ter 
draw  a  gun  no  more,  though  I  was  ready  and 
willin'  ter  in  them  days. 

"  One  time  I  was  out  on  a  prospectin'  an9 
fishin'  trip  with  a  chum  o'  mine  named  Weston, 
up  near  Buffalo,  in  Coloraydo.  One  day  we 
come  across  a  deserted  cabin.  'Twas  full  o' 
grub  an'  in  fine  shape,  but  the  fire  had  been 
dead  fer  days  an'  we  could  see  no  one  was  livin' 
there.  We  built  a  fire  an'  helped  ourselves  ter 
what  we  needed,  fer  we'd  left  our  outfit  below 
an'  was  some  hungry.  We  did  that  way  in 
them  days,  when  we  found  a  shack  on  the  trail 
an'  nobody  home.  All  any  one  asked  was  fer 
the  stranger  ter  leave  things  clean  an'  ship 
shape.  We  had  a  good  square  meal,  then  we 
pulled  out. 

"  Weston's  uncle,  a  feller  named  The  Hender- 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     33 

son,  who  lived  up  the  gulch  'bout  one  or  three 
miles  above  this  here  shack,  was  a  pretty  hard 
nut,  an'  it  seems  he'd  bought  the  outfit  we  found 
in  the  empty  shack  from  two  fellers  who'd 
stocked  it  up  an'  then  pulled  out  ahead  o'  time. 
Henderson  had  tracked  us  ter  the  cabin,  an' 
the  next  time  he  sees  Weston  he  accuses  him  an' 
me  o'  takin'  this  here  grub  which  he'd  bought. 
Weston  tells  me  about  it  an',  bein'  young  an' 
hot-headed,  I  says  ter  him, 

"  '  Damn  him,  I  ain't  goin'  ter  let  no  man 
call  me  a  thief,  an'  when  I  sees  him,  he's  goin' 
ter  eat  them  words.' 

"  An'  Weston,  bein'  my  pardner,  says,  '  O' 
course.  Me,  too.'  For  The,  bein'  his  uncle, 
didn't  make  no  difference  ter  Jim. 

"  In  them  days  I  was  skinner,  bull-whacker, 
any  ole  thing,  an'  my  nearest  neighbor,  ole  Jeff 
Prouty,  says  ter  me  a  few  days  later, 

"  '  Jack,  I  got  a  load  o'  cedar  posts  I  got  ter 
git  ter  town.  When  you  go  ter  town  will  you 
whack  them  bulls  o'  mine  in,  them  a  snakin'  them 
cedar  posts? ' 

"  «  Sure,'  says  I. 

"  The  next  day  I  went,  whackin'  Jeff's  ox 
team,  the  wagon  piled  high  with  cedar,  an'  goin' 
through  the  woods  I  was  walkin'  alongside  the 
team.  The  day  was  hot  an'  I  took  my  coat  off 
an'  throwed  it  on  the  high  seat,  leavin'  my  Smith 
an'  Wesson  in  the  side  pocket  o'  it,  when  The 


34     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

Henderson  come  towards  me,  drivin'  a  team  o' 
little  mules  he  had. 

"  '  Hold  on,  I  want  ter  speak  ter  you,'  I  says 
when  he'd  drew  up  close.  So  he  stops. 

"  '  Did  you,'  I  says,  '  say  ter  Jim  Weston 
that  him  an'  me  stole  anything  from  you  ?  ' 

"  '  Yes,'  he  says,  '  I  said  them  words.' 

"  *  Then,'  I  says,  *  you're  a  damn  liar,  an'  you 
git  down  fer  I'm  goin'  ter  lick  you.' 

"  He  climbed  down  quick,  fer  he  was  a 
scrapper,  but  he  pulled  out  a  long  knife  as  he 
come,  an'  me  with  my  gun  in  my  coat  pocket  on 
the  wagon  seat!  But  I  was  pretty  quick  in 
them  days  an'  I  hadn't  more'n  seen  that  knife 
when  I'd  flipped  my  coat  over  the  wheel  an'  had 
my  hand  in  the  pocket,  but  the  damn  gun  had 
slipped  through  a  hole  in  the  linin'.  I  didn't 
wait  ter  dig  it  out,  but  brought  it  away  linin' 
an'  all  an'  had  him  covered  when  he  come  round 
in  front  o'  his  mule  team  —  he  was  comin'  some, 
too,  with  his  knife  raised,  but  when  he  seen  he 
was  covered  he  says, 

"  '  Oh,  well,  you've  got  the  drop  on  me,  all 
right.  O'  course,  with  a  gun  you  got  a  unfair 
advantage  at  this  distance.' 

"  '  Yes,'  says  I,  'an'  when  you  come  at  me  with 
a  knife,  seein'  I  had  no  gun  on  me,  'twarn't 
nothin'  unfair  in  that  advantage,  I  reckon? 
Tell  you  what  I'll  do  —  I'll  meet  you  anywhere 
you  say  an'  you  can  use  any  gun  you  like,  an' 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     35 

we'll  have  our  friends  there  ter  see  fair  play.' 

"  He  agreed  ter  that  an'  we  met  in  a  big  sa 
loon  in  Denver.  He  had  a  bunch  o'  his  friends 
at  his  back  an'  I  had  mine,  an'  he  had  his  gun 
handy,  likewise  me.  While  we  was  glarin'  at 
each  other,  all  too  willin'  to  start  the  business 
o'  drillin'  holes,  one  o'  his  friends,  with  more 
sense  than  common,  got  him  by  the  pistol  arm 
an'  begins  ter  argue. 

"  '  The,'  says  he,  '  with  two  such  shots  as  you 
two  fellers  is,  one  o'  you  is  sure  ter  drop,  mebbe 
both,  an'  you're  married  an'  got  kids  ter  think 
about.  I  don't  know  what  this  muss  is  all 
about,  but  'tain't  right.' 

"  Then  one  o'  my  friends  asks  me  what  it's  all 
about,  an'  I  tells  him. 

"  '  Hell,  I  know  Jack  here  didn't  steal  nothin' 
from  nobody,  an'  it's  up  ter  Henderson  ter 
apologize.' 

"'That  goes  with  me,'  I  says.  '  If  The 
apologizes,  there  ain't  no  quarrel.' 

"  After  some  talky  talk  The  kind  o'  grins  an' 
says,  '  Well,  I  reckon  mebbe  you  ain't  no  thief, 
after  all,  Jack,  so  I  take  back  them  words.' 

"  '  O.  K.,'  says  I.  '  An'  since  you've  taken 
them  back,  The,  they'll  need  washin'  down  an' 
drownin',  so  the  drinks  is  on  me  all  round.' 

"  We  had  'em.  But  I  reckon  them  words 
needed  more  o'  the  washin'  down  process,  fer 
The  said  it  was  his  turn  ter  do  some  sluicin',  an' 


36     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

the  last  I  c'n  remember,  The  was  slappin'  me  on 
the  shoulder,  grippin'  my  hand,  an'  proclaimin' 
that  I  was  the  only  honest  man  an'  that  he'd 
trust  me  with  untold  gold. 

"  I  reckon  'twarn't  no  very  edifyin'  sight,  but 
they  do  speak  o'  that  night  yit  as  one  o'  the 
events  o'  that  day,  us  bein'  all  lit  up,  which  was 
some  better  than  havin'  daylight  let  inter  us 
violent. 

"  Even  in  these  days  o'  peace  an'  softness 
when  a  man  ain't  hardly  let  ter  pack  a  gun,  it's 
handy  ter  have  it  round,  fer  when  you  need  it, 
you  need  it  jist  as  bad  as  in  them  days,"  and  he 
gripped  the  shiny  butt  lovingly. 

For  Jack  still  carries  his  old  long-barreled 
Smith  and  Wesson. 


HIS  BEST  BELOVED  SON 

West  from  the  desert  over  the  mountains 
many,  many  miles  there  is  a  land  that  has  lain 
asleep  since  the  early  mining  days.  There  the 
manzanita  and  the  chaparral  replace  the  desert 
cactus  and  its  rounded  gray-green  sage.  There 
tall,  dark  pines  grow  in  small  clumps,  where 
once  were  mighty  forests.  There,  too,  deep 
rocky  gulches  cut  all  the  brush-clad  hills 
through  which  the  swift  roaring  floods  pour  in 
the  rainy  time,  but  for  eight  or  nine  months 
in  the  year  one  crosses  them  dry-shod.  Then 
they  are  dry  as  a  lava  bed  and  the  desert  is 
scarcely  hotter,  for  it  is  a  semi-arid  land. 
There,  too,  crawl  the  tarantula,  the  scorpion, 
and  the  lizard,  but  the  lizard  is  small  and  slaty- 
gray,  not  the  desert  lizard  of  every  size,  nor 
with  its  brilliant  coloring.  It  is  a  cattle  coun 
try,  in  a  way,  and  in  one  place  and  another  a 
patch  of  noble  forest  yields  its  logs,  but  the 
great,  old  mines  that  filled  the  land  with  eager, 
searching  men  seem  dead.  Though  now  inert 
these  many  years,  perchance  they  are  but  sleep 
ing. 

It  is  not  a  farming  land,  though  here  and 
37 


38     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

there  a  flat,  a  little  swale,  or  narrow  bench  will 
grow  green  things  to  giant  size,  and  big,  deli 
cious  fruits.  All  up  and  down,  the  steep  gulch 
slopes  are  sown  with  dark  green  pines,  with  now 
and  then  a  bull  pine  bearing  its  feathery  bluish 
needles.  There  the  deer  play  by  the  roadside 
and  at  night  the  wildcat  calls  and,  in  the  deeper 
forest,  the  mountain  lion  prowls.  No,  it  is  not 
a  rancher's  land,  yet  it  holds  the  charm  of  wild 
and  rugged  beauty  that  ranches  could  not  give. 

It  was  in  this  country  we  were  hunting  him, 
the  sheriff,  the  old  cattleman,  and  I,  and  the  cat 
tleman  was  telling  me  the  story.  Nature  had 
given  the  cattleman  a  tall,  strong  body,  but  an 
accident  at  birth  had  twisted  and  deformed  it, 
but  not  his  heart  which  was  big  and  generous. 
Nor  had  it  spoiled  his  laugh  which  was  ever 
ready  and  joyous.  His  horses,  his  time,  and  his 
money  were  ever  at  the  call  of  those  who  needed 
them.  He  could  see  a  cow  hidden  in  the  chami- 
sal  where  I  could  see  only  a  blur,  and  so  he  was 
a  valuable  member  of  the  party. 

"  It  was  about  thirty-five  years  ago  he  first 
come  here  an'  opened  a  general  store  on  one  side 
o'  the  street,  an'  a  fine  saloon  on  the  other. 
Niels  Andersen  is  a  Dane,  o'  course,  as  his  name 
shows,  but  he  talks  jist  like  you  an'  me.  His 
life  has  told  on  him,  but  he's  still  a  husky  feller, 
an'  in  them  days  he  was  some  man!  His  blue 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     39 

eyes  could  snap  like  the  Devil  when  he  was 
drunk,  an'  be  the  softest,  gentlest  eyes  you  ever 
saw  when  he  was  right,  but  they  got,  mostly, 
ter  snappin'  like  the  Devil,  fer  he  got  ter  sam- 
plin'  too  much  o'  his  stock  over  ter  the  saloon, 
an'  the  worst  o'  it  was  that  when  he  got  drunk 
he  always  wanted  ter  kill  some  one  —  one  o'  his 
best  friends,  fer  choice. 

"  Ter  this  day,  him  an'  his  old  chum,  Ike 
Jamieson,  don't  speak,  fer  he  pulled  a  gun  on 
Jamieson  in  his  store  one  day  when  Ike  was 
in  there  buyin'  something,  an'  if  Ike  hadn't  got 
ter  his  gun  hand  pronto  an'  taken  his  gun  away, 
there'd  been  doin's  right  then.  Ole  Jed  Bran- 
some,  the  sheriff,  didn't  want  ter  do  nothin',  fer 
he  was  a  good  feller  with  everybody  in  the 
County,  an'  Andersen  an'  him  was  friends,  An 
dersen  bein'  a  prominent  citizen,  as  you  might 
say.  It  got  worse  an'  worse,  though,  an'  one 
evening,  'bout  dusk,  Andersen  come  through  the 
door  o'  his  store,  a  forty-five  in  each  hand,  firm' 
as  he  come.  He  nicked  the  door-post  jist  be 
hind  the  ear  of  a  feller  standin'  there  —  Hell ! 
no,  he  didn't  know  the  cuss,  he  was  jist  shootin'. 
Then  he  wheeled  round  an'  fired  up  an'  down 
the  street.  Jed  comes  up  ter  Bill  Minturn  — 
Bill  was  a  friend  o'  Andersen's  an'  a  big,  power 
ful  feller,  too  —  and  Jed  says, 

"  '  Bill,  I  don't  want  ter  arrest  Niels  an'  get 


40     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

him  in  disgrace,  an'  make  any  fuss.  You  git 
him  in  a  corner  somewhere  an'  take  them  guns 
away  from  him,  will  you?  ' 

"  So  Bill  coaxes  Niels  ter  go  over  ter  the 
dance-hall,  an'  that's  a  new  idea  ter  Andersen 
so  he  goes  along,  delighted  with  the  doin'  some 
thing.  As  they  goes  in  the  door,  Niels  first, 
Bill  come  up  close  behind  him,  pins  both  arms 
ter  his  sides,  an'  then  another  friend  took  his 
guns  away.  Mad!  He  was  ready  ter  kill  the 
whole  town.  He  got  about  half  sober  next  day, 
but  he  was  broodin'  and  ugly,  an'  I  reckon  back 
som'ers  in  his  mind  was  the  drunken  notion  that 
he'd  been  took  advantage  of  by  his  friends  when 
they  wheedled  his  hardware  outer  him. 

"  Now  Niels  was  jist  about  all  o'  a  man  when 
he  was  sober,  an'  his  wife  was  the  sweetest,  big 
blue-eyed  woman  you'd  meet  in  a  week,  an'  she 
jist  worshipped  Niels,  only  fer  that  wicked 
drunken  temper  o'  his,  an'  Lord  knows  it  was 
a  plenty.  She  couldn't  do  nothin'  ter  make  him 
quit,  an'  she  couldn't  do  nothin'  with  him, 
neither,  when  he  was  on  the  war-path. 

"  Well,  this  day  after  his  little  fireworks 
play,  he  was  in  his  saloon,  broodin'  like,  an' 
there  was  three-five  fellers  in  there  drinkin', 
when  Mrs.  Andersen  come  across  from  the  store 
ter  speak  ter  him  about  somethin'.  You  know, 
pardner,  how  a  crazy  idea  will  come  ter  the 
front  pronto  in  a  drunk's  brain?  It  did  then. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     41 

No  sooner  he  see  his  wife  come  in  them  swing 
doors  than  Niels  whips  out  his  two  heavy  forty- 
fives.  One  o'  them  he  throws  on  the  bunch  that 
was  drinkin',  an'  yells,  *  Git  inter  that  corner, 
you  damn  coyotes,  an'  face  this  way,  han's  up,' 
and  he  kept  his  gun  playin'  back  an'  forth  over 
'em  like  lightnin'.  And  then  he  turns  to  Min 
nie  and  yells,  '  Pull  up  your  skirts  an'  dance, 
damn  you,  too!  I'll  show  you  all  I'm  boss  in 
my  own  shanty,  anyhow.' 

"  Well,  sir,  that  big,  handsome,  home-bred 
Indiana  girl,  with  a  look  o'  pain  and  humiliation 
in  her  blue  eyes,  pulled  her  skirts  up  ter  her 
knees  an'  danced  before  that  corner  full  o'  cow- 
punchers,  their  han's  reachin'  fer  the  ceilin'  an' 
their  eyes  goggled,  mostly  on  account  o'  Niels' 
gun,  an'  when  she  couldn't  stand  up  no  more, 
he  drove  her  out  at  the  end  o'  his  gun,  an'  the 
held-up  bunch  after  her. 

"  The  last  o'  her  boys  was  born  soon  after  — 
too  soon,  a  long  ways  too  soon.  When  Niels 
woke  up  an'  all  he'd  done  come  back  on  him,  he 
cried  like  a  baby  an'  went  down  on  his  knees  ter 
her.  That  was  his  last  rampage,  but  the  mis 
chief  was  done.  An'  Minnie  Andersen  growed 
thin  an'  faded.  You  know  the  dead  look  she  al 
ways  has  on  her  face,  an'  her  whole  body  acts 
listless  like  an'  sort  o'  don't  care  a  damn. 

"  Now,  they  talk  about  God's  mercy  and  kind 
ness,  so  it  don't  seem  jist  square  that  a  man's 


42      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

weaknesses  should  be  handed  down  ter  a  inno 
cent  kid  —  ain't  that  right?  Karl  Andersen, 
you  savvy,  was  the  youngest  boy  —  him  that 
was  born  soon  after  that  dancin'  an'  gun  party 
—  an'  he's  a  right  husky,  upstandin',  powerful 
boy,  an'  he's  got  his  mother's  big,  fearless, 
steady  blue  eyes,  but  —  well,  they  don't  look 
jist  right. 

"  Niels  has  a  heap  o'  friends  here  who  don't 
hold  nothin'  agin'  him  on  account  o'  the  past, 
fer  there's  one  fine  thing  about  our  little  town 
an'  this  whole  Country,  too.  No  matter  what 
man  or  woman  has  done,  if  they  turn  their  faces 
ter  the  front  and  tries  ter  keep  'em  there,  the 
past  is  clean  forgot,  and  that  is  what  it  ought 
ter  be,  fer  I  reckon  we're  all  of  us  little  igno 
rant  children  learnin'  by  mistakes." 

The  cow-horse  senses  anything  strange  in  the 
brush  before  his  rider  sees  it,  and  our  horses 
were  pricking  their  ears  forward  and  stepping 
high.  As  we  rounded  a  clump  of  manzanitas 
the  object  of  our  two  days'  search  stood  over  a 
little  pool,  his  broad  shoulders  and  tall,  power 
ful  frame  reflected  in  the  water.  He  was  talk 
ing  to  his  image,  and  when  he  heard  the  thud 
of  hoofs  and  jingle  of  bits  he  straightened  up 
and  met  our  eyes.  In  his  large  blue  eyes  was 
the  mournful  look  one  sees  sometimes  in  the  eyes 
of  a  dog.  He  had  run  away  from  home,  and 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     43 

for  two  days  and  nights  had  tramped  without 
either  rest  or  food. 

His  name  is  Karl  Andersen,  and  he  is  a  hope 
less  epileptic. 


A  SKINNER'S  DAY 

The  ten-mule  team  comes  clanking  in  in  the 
yellow  afterglow  hauling  a  heavy  wagon  bear 
ing  a  load  of  ore.  They  walk  fetlock-deep  in 
finest  dust  that  swirls  above  and  around  the 
skinner,  and  so  he  rides  in  a  veiling  cloud  tinged 
by  the  evening  light.  His  wagon  he  leaves  be 
side  a  car  to  which  its  ore  is  to  be  transferred, 
for  the  only  train  leaves  town  at  dawn.  Then 
his  unhitched  mules  with  chains  a- jingle  go 
scuffling  wearily  through  the  dust  to  the  big  cor 
ral  on  the  edge  of  town. 

After  the  heavy  harness  is  stripped  from 
dusty,  sweat-streaked  backs,  they  crowd  to  the 
wooden  drinking-trough  while  the  skinner  ap 
portions  to  each  mule  his  share  of  barley  and 
hay.  Then  gates  are  clicked,  and  the  tired 
skinner,  after  a  sousing  at  the  tap,  comes  to  the 
hotel  dining-room,  where  at  a  long  and  narrow 
table  he  eats  a  silent  meal.  Then  a  wait  in  a 
throng  of  his  desert  friends  while  the  mail  is 
handed  out,  then  the  news  is  greedily  scanned, 
then  the  Imperial  Bar  Room  swallows  him. 
There  he  finds  his  night  cronies  seated  about  a 
large  round  table,  gambling  absorbedly  for 
small  stakes.  He  joins  them  and  plays  until 
44 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      45 

nine  o'clock,  when  he  leaves  them  for  the  night. 
Then  up  in  the  morning  at  four  o'clock  to  get 
his  breakfast  in  the  empty  hotel  dining-room, 
collect  the  mail,  look  over  his  wagon  for  weak 
ened  parts,  then  the  mules  are  hitched,  the  har 
ness  scanned  for  any  worn  or  weakened  spots, 
then  his  team  rumbles  noisily  out  of  town,  the 
jolt  of  his  empty  wagon  greeting  the  waking 
ears  of  a  later  riser  here  and  there. 

Up  through  the  gently  sloping  desert  plods 
slowly  the  panting  team,  the  heavy  yellow  sand 
pouring  in  cascades  from  the  wagon  wheels,  and 
then  low  hills  are  reached,  the  road  still  wind 
ing  upward  along  a  sandy  slope  with  high, 
brush-studded  waves  of  sand  enfolding  it  to 
right  and  left,  and  then  a  tiny  canon  engulfs 
the  struggling  team,  and  then  a  deeper  one,  its 
sides  of  yellow  broken  porphyry  holding  no  sin 
gle  blade  of  grass  in  any  of  their  crevices. 
Above,  it  narrows  to  a  deep  dark  cut  of  purple 
granite,  black  with  shadow,  verdureless  and 
lifeless,  like  a  picture  by  Dore.  That  cut  is  the 
lower  gateway  to  a  bare  and  rock-strewn  hill 
hemmed  all  about  with  mountain  walls,  purple, 
yellow,  gray.  Still  up  the  road  winds,  through 
another  gate,  this  time  of  hard  blue  limestone 
seamed  with  veins  of  white,  then  out  through 
this  higher  gateway  to  another  bare  steep  slope, 
but  only  bare  of  rocks,  for  the  joshua-tree,  the 
cactus,  and  the  sage-bush  flourish  there. 


46     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

On  to  this  desert  pasture  open  the  mouths  of 
draws  and  canons  that  through  the  countless 
ages  the  upper  floods  have  cut.  Into  the  black 
est,  deepest,  coldest  of  those  canon  mouths,  the 
skinner's  team  has  wound,  and  there,  just  out  of 
sight  around  its  lower  bastion,  his  blacksnake 
cracks  like  a  pistol  shot,  for  he  is  only  half  way 
up  and  his  mules  are  wearying.  Six  hours  to 
go  eight  miles,  for  he  is  bound  for  a  mine  on  a 
steep  bare  slope  lying  below  the  snow,  and  the 
skinner  walks  those  miles.  With  his  rawhide 
hanging  over  his  shoulder,  with  both  hands 
gathering  rocks  that  he  throws  at  any  mule  he 
sees  who  isn't  pulling  his  pound,  the  skinner's 
face  is  beginning  to  redden,  his  language  is 
warming  up,  for,  though  the  time  is  but  mid- 
morning,  the  hot  desert  sun  is  chasing  the  shad 
ows  out  of  the  night-cooled  canon,  and  it  tries 
his  temper  to  see  one  mule  doing  the  work  of 
two,  and  it  tries  it  more  when  a  well  aimed  rock 
thrown  at  the  ribs  of  the  laggard  mate,  bounds 
off  with  the  sound  of  rock  on  bone,  the  mule 
never  even  flicking  his  tail  to  acknowledge  a 
center  shot. 

It  is  almost  true,  what  I've  often  heard,  that 
you  cannot  hurt  a  mule.  Rocks  and  black- 
snakes  he  minds  but  little,  and  when  he  deems 
that  his  energies  have  been  used  as  much  as  they 
should,  right  there  he  quits  till,  in  his  own  mind, 
he  is  recuperated.  Some  of  us  good  Americans 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     47 

with  our  hustle  and  rush  and  overwork  would 
not  be  demeaning  ourselves  to  learn  from  the 
good  American  mule,  for  he'll  work  like  —  a 
mule,  but  will  take  it  slow,  without  nervous 
hurry  or  fuss,  and  wih1  last  twice  as  long  as  a 
powerful  horse  very  much  larger  than  he.  No 
one  may  fathom  the  mulish  mind,  but  perchance 
as  he  stands,  clean  limbed  and  sound,  after 
thirty  hard-working  years,  and  sees  a  worn-out 
horse  go  by,  his  throat-splitting  bray  is  the 
laugh  of  contempt  the  wise  has  for  the  fool,  for 
he  is  as  sound  as  a  bell  at  thirty,  that  horse 
broken  down  at  ten.  No,  maybe  one  "  can't 
kill  a  damn  mule,"  but  the  mule  has  a  voice  in 
that,  and  in  that  voice  he  tells  himself,  "  I  will 
save  my  strength  for  a  future  need,  for  I  see 
hard  work  ahead." 

But  the  skinner  has  reached  the  mine  at  last, 
and  while  his  mules  with  their  nose-bags  on  are 
swishing  their  ratty  tails,  he  eats  with  the 
miners  a  hearty  dinner  in  their  big  boarding- 
house.  The  news  of  the  town  he  brings  to  them 
and  takes  back  mining  news.  Then  the  sacks 
of  ore  are  loaded  on  his  heavy,  wide-tired 
wagon,  and  with  a  parting  adios  he  starts  down 
the  mountain  side,  while  the  whine  and  shriek  of 
brake  on  tire  fills  all  the  canon  bed.  He  is  rid 
ing  the  big  nigh  wheeler  now,  one  hand  holding 
a  thin  stout  line  that  runs  to  the  leaders'  heads, 


48     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

the  other  grasping  his  brake.  Sometimes  his 
wagon  bumps  off  the  grade,  overturning  and 
dumping  out  its  load  of  heavy  ore  sacks  that  lie 
scattered  about  the  steep  incline ;  then  he  must 
right  the  upturned  wagon,  and  load  it  a  second 
time.  Sometimes  the  canon  road's  so  blocked 
with  snow  he  cannot  get  up ;  then  he  leaves  his 
wagon  stuck  in  the  snow  and  takes  the  trail  for 
town,  to  come  back  when  the  road  is  open. 
Meanwhile  the  mules  he  has  taken  back  are  eat 
ing  their  heads  off  at  his  expense.  Sometimes 
when  struggling  up  the  grade  he  will  see  a  cloud 
burst  threatening  in  the  mountains  high  above ; 
then  every  living  thing  must  leave  the  road  that 
follows  the  canon  bed,  for  that  is  the  cloud 
burst's  watercourse.  He  must  unhitch  his 
mules,  leave  his  wagon,  and  take  to  the  canon 
slopes,  only  to  find,  when  the  flood  has  passed, 
that  his  wagon  is  buried  in  mud  and  stones  and 
loaded  with  boulders  from  the  flood  that  has 
rolled  over  it.  And  sometimes  his  brake  snaps 
in  a  dangerous  spot;  and  then  —  he  curses 
mules  no  more. 

His  face  is  burned  to  a  bright,  brick  red,  his 
eyes  are  crinkled  up  from  squinting  into  the 
desert  sun,  his  hair  is  none  too  thick,  but  his 
mustache  makes  up  for  that  for  he  doesn't  get 
time  to  shave.  The  tiny  cigarette  he  smokes  is 
buried  in  its  shade.  His  voice  is  low  and  his 
speech  is  gentle  when  he  is  with  his  friends. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     49 

No  fiery  words  escape  his  lips,  no  oaths,  nor  any 
violence,  save  when  he's  skinning  mules.  Then 
he's  a  raging  demon,  and  the  vilest  names  he 
flings  at  them,  blood  curdling  oaths  and  bitter 
est  curses  he  hurls  at  their  wagging  ears. 

The  purple  wall  goes  sheerly  up  till,  twenty 
feet  above  its  base,  it  overhangs  the  road,  upon 
whose  other  side  there  stands  a  giant  boulder, 
purple,  too,  bastioning  the  narrow  road  from 
the  deep  gorge  below.  So  narrow  is  that  canon 
track  between  that  sheer  wall  and  that  rock, 
that  wagon  hubs  will  almost  graze  its  sides, 
and  just  below  that  narrow  portal  the  road 
drops  at  a  dizzy  slant,  then  vanishes  around  a 
point.  The  rocks  are  purple  and  the  purple 
dust  is  deep  upon  the  road.  But  for  a  little 
while  at  noon,  a  sword  flash  drops  down  from 
the  sun  to  cut  the  gloom,  then  all  is  purple  dark 
again.  There  dusk  comes  quickly  in  mid-after 
noon,  and  all  the  nameless  terrors  of  the  moun 
tains  of  the  desert  seem  centred  in  that  spot. 
It  is  The  Devil's  Gate. 

The  skinner  came  bumping  down  the  grade 
and  he  was  cursing  lustily.  He  had  to  pass 
through  the  Devil's  Gate  for  it  lies  on  the  only 
road  between  the  mines  far  up  the  mountain  side 
and  the  town  and  station  far  below,  and  as  he 
swung  around  to  the  Gate,  a  purple  dust  cloud 
billowed  ahead,  enveloped,  and  followed  him. 


50     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

while  the  brake  shoes  clamping  the  heavy  wheels 
were  whining  against  the  tires.  The  skinner 
was  riding  the  big  nigh  wheeler  when  his  leaders 
squeezed  through  the  narrow  pass  and  dropped 
down  the  purple  road  below.  He  was  barking 
curses  at  the  leaders  when  the  overstrained 
brakes  broke  and  the  massive  wagon  with  its 
heavy  load  ran  on  to  the  wheelers  with  crush 
ing  force,  then  plowed  its  way  to  the  very  heart 
of  writhing  bodies  and  thrashing  legs, —  a 
grim,  relentless  Juggernaut,  till  halted  in  the 
choked-up  way,  while  the  death  screams  of  ten 
powerful  mules  cut  through  the  purple  gloom. 
And  then  the  Gate  was  very  still  —  the  skin 
ner  would  curse  no  more. 

High  up  the  opposite  canon  wall,  above  the 
shadowed  gorge,  a  jutting  spire  of  stone  stood 
up.  It  was  the  favorite  lookout  of  a  big  brown 
hawk  who  rose  with  a  beat  of  powerful  wings 
and  mounted  to  the  blue,  for  strange,  new 
sounds  assailed  his  ears  from  the  shadowed  road 
below.  Then  from  the  line  of  blue  above,  a 
dusky-plumaged  buzzard  came  floating  down 
the  canon  with  lazy,  but  sure,  intent  to  perch 
upon  the  eyrie  of  the  hawk.  With  bright  sharp 
eyes  and  folded  wings  he  waited,  the  patience  of 
the  ages  in  his  pose. 


ASPIRATION 

There  was  no  earth,  there  was  no  sky,  nor  any 
air  between;  naught  but  a  swirl  of  bitter  dust 
that  filled  the  mouth  and  ears  and  eyes  of  the 
young  Desert  Rat.  Too  young  he  was  to  read 
the  signs,  so  a  sand-storm  in  the  desert  was  his 
fate.  Six  burros  he  had  started  with,  six  bur 
ros  he  had  lost,  for  they  had  drifted  before  the 
storm  and  were  never  seen  again.  Since  their 
packs  held  his  water  and  all  his  grub,  his 
clothes,  and  his  mining  tools,  a  bare  human 
atom  he  was  left  in  the  midst  of  a  howling  waste. 
His  eyes  were  filled  with  burning  sand,  but  there 
was  naught  for  eyes  to  see ;  his  feet  were  heavy 
in  yielding  sand,  but  there  was  nowhere  for  feet 
to  go ;  and  his  throat,  as  well  as  his  mouth,  was 
full  of  the  hot  and  gritty  dust,  but  there  was  no 
water  to  ease  his  throat  if  the  dust  had  not  been 
there.  First  he  was  gripped  with  wild  despair, 
then  came  dull  apathy,  then  a  benumbed  wak 
ing  sleep,  and  after  long  hours  he  dropped  to 
his  knees  and  crawled  through  the  sand,  with 
head  bowed  down  like  any  desert  thing. 

Where  a  moist  spot  shows  in  the  desert,  the 
51 


52     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

blowing  sand  will  stick  and  grow  and  pile  upon 
itself  till  a  big  sand-dune  is  formed.  When  the 
poor  blinded,  crawling  thing  met  one  of  those 
big  dunes,  with  gripping  fingers  and  bleeding 
knees  he  crawled  through  cascades  of  sliding 
sand,  like  a  wounded  snake,  to  the  top.  His 
tongue  was  swollen.  It  filled  his  mouth  and 
protruded  between  his  lips  till  he  could  not  even 
mutter,  but  he  had  one  conscious  thought,  "  I 
must  keep  alive  till  I  reach  the  top,  so  they  will 
see  my  bones,  and  since  I  must  surely  die  today, 
I  will  die  as  high  as  I  can." 

The  fierce  storm  ended,  the  wind  died  down, 
the  shifting,  driving  sand  was  still,  as  though 
the  desert  had  done  its  worst  and  had  stopped 
to  catch  its  breath.  And  still  was  the  lifeless, 
crumpled  form  that  lay  on  that  dune  of  sand. 
Then  the  moon  peeped  over  the  desert's  rim, 
throwing  its  clear,  soft  radiance  on  cones  and 
ridges  and  waves  of  sand,  while,  but  a  short 
stone's  throw  from  that  big  sand-dune,  a  desert 
surveyor's  fire  winked  red  beneath  the  moon-. 


THE  SKINNER 

The  time  is  evening,  and  the  hills  are  blue- 
black  all  about.  Upon  the  desert's  farther  rim, 
a  band  of  yellow  light,  and  rising  from  the 
desert  floor,  a  tiny  puffed-up  cloud  of  dust 
comes  rolling  ever  close.  'Tis  nothing  but  a 
smoky  cloud.  There's  never  a  thing  in  sight, 
save  that  ever  growing  ball  of  dust,  expanding 
as  it  nears.  Across  the  road  a  coyote  runs  and 
scuttles  into  the  brush.  Even  the  lizards  do 
not  stir,  for  it  is  that  hour  'twixt  day  and  night 
when  the  wind  of  the  desert  is  still,  when  the  day 
has  ceased  to  breathe,  when  night  is  stretching 
her  arms  aloft  ere  opening  starry  eyes.  The 
hush  of  evening  settles  down,  and  still  that  cloud 
comes  on,  over  the  brush  and  the  malapai; 
across  the  cracked,  dry  bed  of  an  ancient  lake 
that  ages  back  had  been  fed  by  long  dried 
streams ;  through  deep  gullies  and  over  bumps ; 
still  keeping  the  twisting  road,  till  a  couple  of 
galloping  mules  spring  out  of  the  rolling  yellow 
cloud,  and  another  pair,  and  another,  until 
twelve  big  mules  flash  by,  then  the  skinner, 
standing  up  in  his  seat  and  leaning  against  the 
lines,  while  his  blacksnake  coils  and  whistles  and 
cracks.  For  one  brief  flashing  space  his  face 
53 


54     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

gleams  with  wild  fury  against  the  dying  light 
—  and  then  he  is  by  and  out  of  sight,  and  the 
dust  cloud  rolls  behind. 

Then,  after  a  week  had  gone,  I  saw  him  in  a 
hospital. 

Ten  miles  along,  after  he  flashed  by,  the 
wagon-tongue  broke  and  he  was  pulled  down 
off  his  box  and  dragged  through  a  big  sage 
brush  that  tore  his  eyes  till  the  lids  swelled  shut 
and  stripped  his  hands  of  flesh  to  the  bone.  So 
he  had  to  drop  the  lines.  He  wandered  that 
night  and  for  four  long  days  in  a  hot  and  aim 
less  hell,  till  a  Desert  Rat  discovered  him  and 
led  him  to  a  town. 

He  had  hauled  ore  to  a  distant  town,  and 
was  bringing  back  supplies.  He  left  there  with 
two  bottles  —  that  were  empty  when  he  passed. 

And  the  rest  is  a  story  that  is  told.  He  wijl 
never  see  again. 


ON  AND  OFF  THE  TRAIL 


CIVILIZATION 

We  call  it  the  desert,  yet  it  is  filled  with 
varied  forms  of  life,  life  which  is  throbbing, 
vital,  but  no  kin  to  the  life  exotic  to  it  —  that 
of  humanity.  The  human  touch  on  its  edges 
and  in  little  spots  we  call  oases  only  intensifies 
its  own  independent  life  and  charm  and  terror, 
and  man  recognizes  its  power  when  he  decrees 
that  any  wanderer  shall  have  the  right  to  stop 
a  desert  train  for  water.  The  human  dramas 
on  its  borders,  which  to  us  loom  so  big,  seem 
insignificant  when  we  are  enveloped  in  its  brood 
ing  strength. 

The  desert  dead  ?  Not  so  —  the  side-winder 
stirs  beside  the  sandy  track;  the  road-runners, 
in  pairs,  scuttle  ahead  of  my  horse,  seemingly 
taking  pride  in  winning  a  race  against  him ;  it  is 
the  coyote's  home;  and  the  sky  is  sometimes 
black  with  wild  ducks  who  have  left  the  shore 
of  some  undrinkable  lake.  And  color,  surely, 
is  a  part  of  life.  Not  twice  will  the  same  hues 
assail  the  eye.  The  cactus  flower  bears  the 
color  of  the  rose.  The  greasewood  and  the 
sage-brush  look  different,  and  the  color  of  the 
57 


58      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

skies  at  dawn  and  dusk  never  seems  the  same 
two  days  together. 

The  desert  whispered  to  itself  before  man 
ever  trod  it,  but  now  it  takes  his  accent,  for  be 
neath  a  leaning  sign-post  at  the  end  of  an  old 
worn  track,  lie  the  bleaching  bones  of  a  horse, 
and  far  along  on  the  selfsame  trail  is  an  empty 
whiskey  bottle.  Poor  weapon  with  which  to 
fight  you,  Desert ! 

And  you  have  your  own  forms  of  tiny  insect 
life  that  burrow  in  your  sands,  and  you  are 
framed  in  wild  and  savage  beauty,  for  where  the 
winter  snows  of  the  Sierras  are  poured  upon 
your  glittering  yellow  bosom,  the  creeks  that 
carry  those  clear  icy  waters  are  banked  with 
cottonwoods  and  tall  green  grasses,  while  on 
your  other  side  lie  other  mountains,  stern  and 
cold  and  dead,  that  hold  the  treasures  of  a  thou 
sand  cities  within  their  gloomy  canons.  The 
tiny  holes  and  puny  tracks  that  man  has  made 
upon  those  mighty  ridges  are  but  as  ants'  work 
in  a  dusty  road,  and  in  the  space  of  one  man's 
little  life  the  monuments  to  human  evolution  of 
brain  and  high  endeavor  will  all  be  gently, 
surely,  wiped  away.  This  is  not  done  by  you 
in  savage  anger,  but  slowly  and  inexorably,  yet 
surely  as  the  drifting  of  your  sands  —  and 
yet  not  quite. 

There  is  one  trivial  thing  outlasts  man's 
nobler  monuments;  a  thing  of  interest  to  the 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     59 

burro's  eye,  a  keen  reminder  of  some  vanished 
camp,  a  symbol  of  man's  economic  art,  per 
chance  the  savior  of  some  desert  wanderer's  life 
—  an  old  tomato  can ! 


DAWN 

The  cold,  stark  body  of  those  grim,  bleak 
mountains  shows  gray  and  brown  against  a 
clear  blue  sky ;  by  day,  its  dazzling  blue  a 
menace  in  its  sameness,  but  when  the  night  has 
blown  its  candles  out,  when  against  a  sky  of 
purple  and  of  gray,  huge  rosy  clouds  are  pil 
lowed  above  the  taller  buttes,  whose  topmost 
edges  only  are  tipped  with  purest  gold,  then 
those  mountains  show  no  longer  grim  and  bleak, 
but  soft  with  velvet  shadows,  blue-black  shading 
into  green.  The  broad,  flat  desert,  miles  below, 
is  still  in  dusky  shadow,  save  where  the  sun  is 
climbing  over  a  saddle  further  down,  sending 
one  long,  golden  lance  quivering  across  its  gray- 
ness.  Beyond  that  lower  desert,  the  ramparts 
of  the  gray  Sierras  rise,  their  snowy  peaks 
bathed  all  in  rosy  light,  while  yet  all's  dusk 
below. 

The  sounds  of  night  have  fled,  the  coyote  is 
asleep,  while  day  still  lingers  o'er  the  rosy 
images  of  sweet,  unfinished  dreams,  and  for  a 
precious  moment  the  whole  wide  world  is  still. 
The  hush,  the  silence,  the  suspended  life  of  a 
primeval  world  hold  for  a  single  breath,  while 
60 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      61 

birth,  creation,  all  life's  purest  forms  are  blos 
soming  anew  as  in  the  earth's  first  dawn. 

There  is  a  bit  of  cotton  rope  holds  back  my 
cabin  door,  its  end  frayed  out.  A  tiny  hum 
ming-bird,  bearing  the  hues  of  midnight  and  the 
dawn,  of  high  noon  and  of  dusk,  upon  his  bril 
liant  iridescent  body,  poises  in  the  first  bright 
shaft  of  level  sun  from  over  the  lowest  peak, 
and  darts  his  sharp  bill  into  that  frayed  out 
floss,  gathering  down  to  remake  last  night's 
bed. 

And  then  I  know  'tis  day. 


COMPENSATION 

There  is  a  grim  gray  rampart  that  I  know, 
its  jagged  ridge  sharp  cut  against  the  sky, 
while  over  all  its  mighty  height  and  breadth, 
broods  stark,  dead  desolation.  From  miles 
away  it  gazes  over  lower  peaks  upon  the  yellow, 
hot,  and  dusty  desert  that  seems,  by  contrast, 
teeming  with  quick  life.  No  eagle  wheels  above 
that  steep,  gray  wall,  nor  hawk  nor  buzzard 
circles  in  the  blue.  No  earth,  no  weed,  nor  any 
desert  growth  finds  lodgment  in  a  crevice  of  its 
rock.  Even  the  lizard  shuns  its  steep,  bare 
slope.  The  coyote  circles  round  with  slinking 
glance,  nor  breaks  its  deathlike  silence  with  his 
multi-echoing  bark.  It  holds  not  even  life 
enough  to  please  a  hermit  ghost. 

And  yet,  when  day  is  fading,  and  it  stands 
out  purple-black  against  the  rosy  clouds  of 
dusk,  it  holds  a  certain  beauty  in  its  gloomy 
loneliness.  Then,  when  the  evening  has  closed 
in  and  velvet  night  comes  forth,  it  towers  a 
weird  and  mighty  shape  against  the  paler  sky. 
And  in  the  stillest  watches  of  the  night,  when 
all  wild  nature's  throbbing  in  its  sleep,  the 
frosty,  glittering  stars  stoop  low  to  kiss  its 
62 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     63 

stony  brow,  for,  though  its  foot  is  covered  deep 
in  sharp  edged  shifting  shale,  its  lofty  head 
rears  proudly  up  to  mingle  with  the  brilliant 
spheres  that  lower  mountains  may  not  reach  — 
and  mocks  at  desolation. 


A  DESERT  GARDEN 

There  is  a  tiny  canon  in  the  desert  mountains 
that  opens  out  above  on  to  a  rock-strewn  tree 
less  slope.  Its  sides  are  bare  and  rocky,  with 
here  and  there  a  sage-bush  or  a  dying  Joshua- 
tree,  but  in  the  narrow  tunnel  of  that  canon 
bed,  a  veritable  garden  blooms,  for  the  sunlight 
shines  there  ever  since  it  opens  to  the  west. 

They  are  not  giant  growths,  so  there  is  more 
room  in  which  to  crowd  the  flora  of  the  desert, 
and  in  that  narrow  space  is  all  the  story  of  a 
desert  life.  Struggling  up  through  beds  of 
thin,  sharp,  slaty  shale  that  tinkles  with  the 
sound  of  broken  glass  when  trod  upon,  there 
sprouts  the  pale  geranium,  its  brilliant  scarlet 
faded  to  a  paler  red  in  the  fierce  desert  sun. 
There  sprouts  the  desert  holly,  too,  with  leaves 
of  frosty,  pale  gray-green  and  berries  like  pallid 
strawberries,  not  glowing  with  the  brilliant  red 
of  colder  eastern  climes.  There  is  the  desert 
palm  —  the  joshua-tree,  with  lance-like  spines 
and  stunted  trunk  that  in  the  dusk  a  desert 
horse  will  look  at  twice,  so  much  it  seems  a  si 
lent,  watching  guard,  a  desert  sentinel.  The 
gnarled  and  sturdy  pinon  pine  is  there,  its 
64 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      65 

twisted  trunk  and  writhing  arms  seeming  to  tell 
a  tale  of  stress  and  storm  and  agony,  and  yet 
that  cannot  be  since  it  was  born  misshapen,  and 
the  fiercely  sweeping  desert  winds  had  naught  to 
do  with  its  deformities,  for  close  beside  it  stands 
a  straight-stemmed,  long-leaved  pine,  full 
grown,  but  only  sapling  high,  whose  slender 
straightness  and  whose  graceful  branching 
those  winds  have  failed  to  mar.  There  grows 
the  mountain  mahogany  with  its  rich  wine-red 
heart.  And  under  foot,  round  cactus  balls 
looking  like  porcupines  on  guard,  their  lovely 
delicate  pink  blooms  rivaling  the  rose.  There, 
too,  the  greasewood  flourishes,  man-high,  with 
feathery  foliage  of  a  cedar  green,  whose 
branches  furnish  fuel  for  the  desert  bred,  and 
hiss  and  sputter  like  burning  grease  when  they 
are  set  aflame.  There  are  tiny  tufts  of  bunch- 
grass  and  high  clumps  of  desert  weeds. 

And  there's  the  sage,  the  noble  desert  sage 
of  purple,  green,  and  gray.  Where  water 
comes  seldom,  or  never,  it  sturdily  flings  its 
branches  out,  and  is  as  much  of  the  desert  a 
part,  as  its  sun,  or  its  sands,  or  its  burned-out 
rock.  At  dawn  the  bronco's  parched  throat  is 
wet  by  the  moisture  that  stands  on  its  pale  green 
leaves;  at  evening  its  branches  help  to  heat 
his  rider's  bacon  and  sour  dough,  and,  standing 
as  high  as  a  mounted  man,  it  will  afford  life- 
giving  shade  where  other  shade  is  none.  But 
more  than  that,  the  sage  does  double  service  to 


66     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

the  eye,  for  it  breaks  the  stretch  of  blazing 
light  with  darker  spots  of  a  restful  hue,  and 
when  the  sun  is  sinking  beneath  the  desert's 
far,  straight  rim,  sending  long  shafts  of  mel 
low  fire  to  touch  the  rounded  bodies  of  the  sage 
with  the  light  of  pure  enchantment,  it  is  then 
they  glow  like  balls  of  sunny  light  above  the 
darkening  desert  floor  that  already  has  grown 
shadowed,  for  in  that  eerie,  brooding  hush  the 
burning  blaze  of  day  relents  and  sends  forth 
farewell  glances  of  softest,  kindly  gold.  Brave 
growth  that  looks  the  fierce  sun  in  the  eye  and 
stands  up  proudly  where  all  else  would  perish  or 
live  a  meager,  cowering  life  beneath  his  burning 
glance ! 

But  that's  in  the  flat  desert.  In  my  canon 
garden  the  sage  communes  with  goodly  com 
pany,  and  holds  high  wassail  when  the  winter 
rains  pour  rushing  torrents  down  the  canon 
beds.  For  the  Desert  Gardener  lets  his  garden 
go  a  long,  long  time  unwatered,  then,  like  a  boy 
with  a  new  watering-can,  He'll  sometimes  drown 
His  thirsty  garden  out. 

The  lizards  flash  in  that  garden  green  and 
gray  —  that  buried  garden,  that  sunken  gar 
den,  all  walled  about  with  high  bare  slopes  — 
and  the  sun  is  hot,  though  the  air  is  soft  and 
very,  very  still.  There  are  no  birds  in  that 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     67 

garden,  though  the  hawk  and  his  buzzard  cousin 
fix  their  bright  eyes  upon  it  from  the  blue  sky 
above.  Even  the  insects  dwell  not  there;  no 
busy  whirr  is  ever  heard,  no  cheerful  hum,  no 
chirr,  nor  scrape  of  wing. 

But  every  spot  upon  this  earth  holds  some 
especial  gift,  and  in  my  desert  garden  there 
dwells,  not  deathlike  stillness,  but  the  stillness 
of  a  world  unborn.  There  dwells  profoundest 
peace. 


SURVIVAL  OF  THE  UNFIT 

Man  has  come  and  man  has  gone  and  he  has 
left  this  land  more  desolate  than  when  God 
made  it  at  the  first.  A  shaly  road  winds  into 
the  brooding  shadows  of  a  deep-cleft  canon. 
As  nature  fashioned  it,  it  would  be  grim,  but 
man  has  made  it  tragic,  for  upon  one  side  of 
that  rough  trail  an  old  adobe  arrastre  still 
prevails  o'er  desert  sun  and  fierce  cloudburst 
and  swift  and  sudden  slides  of  rock  from  the 
steep  walls  above.  Across  from  the  old  ar 
rastre,  perched  upon  its  little  dump,  stands  a 
miner's  roofless  hut  of  stone,  brush  covering  the 
floor.  Still  farther  on,  is  a  wide,  deep  hole,  its 
nearer  edge  brushing  the  very  trail  —  that  hole 
was  dug  to  drink  from,  and  beneath  its  shallow 
depth  of  poison  water  lies  a  human  skeleton. 
Then  out  through  the  canon's  upper  end, 
spreads  a  brushy,  rock-strewn  flat  where  only 
an  old  slag  dump  betrays  the  life  of  a  former 
day.  The  flat  backs  up  against  a  steep  gray 
wall,  two  tunnel  mouths  like  eye  sockets  glaring 
from  out  its  face  of  rough,  gray  stone.  Na 
ture,  where  man  has  never  pitched  his  tent,  is 
wild  and  awesome,  sometimes  grim  and  cruel, 

and  sometimes  sad  and  tragic,  but  there  is  no 
68 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     69 

sadness  in  her  face,  there  is  no  tragedy  like  to 
that  she  shows  on  her  broad  countenance  where 
man  has  struggled  and  failed  and  died,  leaving 
his  puny  monuments  behind. 

Then,  leaving  that  gray,  steep  slope  behind 
and  taking  the  canon  road  down  to  the  flat,  one 
reads  a  different  chapter  in  man's  book  of  past 
endeavor,  for  here,  no  rough  and  dangerous 
steeps,  but  beneath  a  burning  sun  a  rough  road 
deep  in  sand  that  runs  through  little  desert 
towns  and  out  across  wide  sandy  wastes.  At 
one  point  on  its  way  this  road  says  Howdy  to 
a  big  stone  house,  adjoining  it,  a  large  stone 
walled  corral.  Before  the  house,  an  old  well- 
hole,  now  half  choked  up  and  dry  as  desert  dust. 
The  ruined  road  house,  the  long  corral  wall 
are  built  of  black  volcanic  rock,  the  burned-out 
malapai  flung  on  the  desert  floor,  long  ages 
gone,  by  some  then  active  crater  miles  away. 
Close  to  that  ruined  road  house,  silent  now, 
where  thirty  years  ago  a  hundred  horses  milled 
in  its  corral,  there  is  a  small  round  knoll,  a  little 
island  in  the  desert  sea,  covered  with  sage-brush, 
with  one  big  flat  stone,  a  deep  hole  in  its  center 
where  the  squaws  were  wont  for  ages  past  to 
grind  their  meal,  using  a  smooth  and  oblong 
stone  for  pestle,  and,  indeed,  they  camp  there 
yet,  whenever  their  wandering  fortunes  bring 
them  near. 

If  man's  struggles  and  ruined  monuments  do 


70     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

bring  but  sadness  to  wild  nature's  face,  his  top 
most  art  in  dress  grafted  upon  her  rough- 
clothed  native  race  were  enough  to  make  her 
rugged  face  crack  into  a  grim  smile.  I  was 
lost  one  day  in  a  wild  and  gloomy  canon  lighted 
by  sunshine  only  at  high  noon.  'Twas  here, 
thought  I,  the  very  earth  was  made  rough  hewn, 
nor  has  been  ever  polished  since,  when  looking 
up  its  bed  I  saw  three  Indians  riding  down. 
The  rear  was  brought  up  by  a  half  grown  boy. 
In  the  center  rode  a  fat,  old  squaw  dressed  in  a 
bright  print  gown,  while  in  the  lead,  a  small, 
old  Indian,  his  deep  brown  leathery  face, 
wrinkled  and  cross-wrinkled  by  age  and  daz 
zling  sun,  beamed  genially  at  me  from  beneath 
the  brim  of  a  high-crowned  old  plug  hat  which 
he  wore  with  conscious  pride  and  dignity  as 
though  it  were  fitter  than  his  old  war-bonnet. 


IGNORANCE 

Far  in  the  desert  shines  a  golden  glory.  On 
one  side,  looking  close,  but  miles  from  it,  rise 
lofty  mountains,  gray,  implacable,  and  bare 
unto  their  summits,  save  for  snow  that  caps 
them  ever,  and  on  beyond  that  misty  sun-shot 
nimbus,  the  desert,  silent,  brush-strewn,  vast. 

Across  the  desert  from  those  gray  rock  walls, 
but  at  its  upper  end,  far  from  that  golden  glory, 
rise  other  mountains,  copper-purple,  black, 
slashed  with  deep  canons  widening  to  a  flat  that 
slopes  to  the  desert  bed.  The  only  roads  into 
those  black,  rough  hills  run  up  the  canon 
slashes.  My  old  cow-pony  picks  his  careful 
way  down  this  kind  nature's  roadway,  for  even 
in  the  desert  is  she  kind,  at  times,  if  one  but  give 
her  smile  for  smile.  Her  smile  is  always  bril 
liant.  When  the  canon  walls  fan  out  to  left 
and  right,  giving  a  wide  look  down  that  sandy 
waste,  my  golden  glory's  there.  'Tis  not  the 
sun  gilding  a  certain  spot  through  rifted,  pur 
ple  clouds.  It  looks  to  my  pleased  eyes  more 
like  a  sunny  fire,  its  licking  flames  softened  by 
mists  of  distance  to  one  bright  golden  glow,  a 
delicate  mist  like  sun  smoke  all  around  it.  The 
rocks  about  are  somber,  the  sky  is  gray  or  pur- 
71 


72     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

pie-dark  —  yet  there  it  shines,  my  fairy  fire. 

I  do  not  know  what  causes  it  —  I  do  not 
want  to  know.  The  names  of  flowers  give  no 
added  pleasure  in  their  beauty,  nor  why  they 
grow,  nor  how,  could  add  to  my  delight.  I  am 
quite  sure  that  science  could  not  aid  me  with  a 
long,  learned  explanation  of  it,  and  if  it  could  I 
should  not  thank  it  much,  for  as  it  is  I  love 
that  fairy  fire,  a  sunny  spot  in  a  wide  burned-up 
flat.  It  glows  less  golden  in  the  golden  sun, 
just  as  a  bonfire  pales  at  broad  midday.  So 
when  I  ride  out  from  the  canon's  shadow  and  see 
that  sun-dust  in  a  blank,  still  world,  my  spirit 
lifts,  my  pony  pricks  his  ears  and  steps  more 
lightly.  The  very  smell  of  sand  he  loves,  of 
course,  yet  I  know  not  but  he  has  had  instilled 
into  his  wise  old  head  some  of  his  master's  fancy. 

There  are  some  men  who  will  account  for  al 
most  everything  upon  this  big,  strange  earth. 
But  did  you  ever  think  how  dreadful  it  would  be 
to  know  it  all?  To  trace  earth's  mighty  layers, 
through  all  the  countless  ages,  to  her  very 
heart  ?  To  hear  the  tongue  of  prehistoric  man, 
or,  possibly,  his  jabber?  Or  yet,  still  further 
back,  to  know  and  see  reptilian  life  acrawl  in 
fetid  slime?  Or,  pray,  would  you  wish  to  see 
and  know  those  creatures  back  at  the  beginning 
when  this  world  was  formed  from  —  what? 
When  all's  explained  and  all's  experienced,  life 
is  a  finished  book,  no  romance  left,  delight,  nor 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     73 

hidden  joy.  No,  give  me  my  sunny  fire  in  the 
desert,  nor  tell  me  whence  it  came.  Oh,  Thou 
Great  Universe,  I  beg  of  Thee,  yield  not  too 
many  secrets  unto  me,  nor  make  me  overwise,  for 
then  should  I  be  sad  forevermore. 


PATIENCE 

A  wide  and  lonely  flat  that  to  the  eye  looks 
limitless.  Though  to  that  eye  it  seems  to 
stretch  unbroken  to  the  line  where  earth  meets 
heaven,  yet  is  it  seamed  and  gashed  with  fluted 
hollows,  draws,  arroyos,  hid  from  the  glance 
that  cuts  across  their  edges  to  the  clear  horizon 
far  away,  as  a  pebble  skips  the  crests  of  dancing 
waves,  nor  takes  account  of  wave-troughs  in  be 
tween.  The  western  sky  is  filled  with  rosy 
clouds  merged  to  a  flaming  yellow  where  it 
meets  the  distant  earth,  that  shows  up  black 
and  sinister  against  that  yellow  glow.  No  hills 
loom  up  athwart  that  far,  free  view ;  no  water's 
there ;  no  growth  of  grass,  no  tree ;  nothing  but 
earth  and  sky  and  stilly  promise  of  the  coming 
night.  Over  the  sage-brush,  greasewood,  cac 
tus  spires,  there  hangs  the  last  light  of  the  dy 
ing  sun,  transparent,  tarnished  gold.  On  the 
black  earth,  that  water's  vital  kiss  would  cause 
to  blush  and  blossom  into  beauty,  crawls  the 
snake,  while  up  from  the  nearest  ridgy  hollow, 
out  on  to  the  flat,  a  big,  lean  steer  with  droop 
ing  head  weaves  slowly,  painfully,  while  on  his 
sunken,  bony  back  a  buzzard  calmly  rides. 

Days  ere  the  cattleman's  keen  eye  had  known 

74 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      75 

his  animal  was  doomed,  the  buzzard's  instinct 
sensed  the  truth ;  thereafter  left  him  never,  but, 
perched  upon  the  steer's  ridged  spine  or  on  a 
jutting,  bony  hip,  with  folded  wings  is  waiting. 
The  dying  beast,  too  sick  to  heed,  too  weak  to 
make  protest,  finally  stumbles  to  his  knees,  then 
plows  the  black  earth  with  his  nose,  and  with  a 
low  moan  settles  down  to  lie  supine,  but  with 
erected  horns.  The  buzzard,  biding  his  time  to 
strike,  moves  forward,  perching  carefully  upon 
one  long  sharp  horn.  Then  from  the  sky,  now 
turned  to  palest  green,  comes  circling  down  from 
some  mysterious  height  the  big  bird's  mate, 
lighting  with  swift,  sure  drop  upon  the  other 
horn. 

No  move  they  make.  With  folded  wings  at 
rest  they  watch  the  big,  gaunt  steer  breathe  out 
his  life,  but  perched  upon  his  wide-spread  curv 
ing  horns,  they're  waiting,  waiting,  waiting. 


THROUGH  A  WINDOW 

From  the  high  peaks  the  soft  white  flakes  are 
driving,  and  though  I  am  standing  ankle-deep 
in  snow,  from  far  below  smiles  up  at  me  the 
silent,  yellow  desert,  shining  with  alluring 
golden  light,  and  ringed  about  my  darkly  storm 
ing  mountains,  it  lies,  a  sunny  circle,  on  its 
flat  floor  far  below,  as  the  sun  shines  through  a 
knot-hole  in  a  darkened  room  and  paints  a 
golden  disk  upon  its  shadowed  floor.  It  is  like 
looking  from  the  outer  cold  and  darkness 
through  a  window  into  warmth  and  cheery  light. 

And  though  it  beckons  warmly  with  its  still 
and  distance  radiance,  holding  out  fair  promise 
and  vivid,  bright  allure,  like  many  a  golden 
vision,  looking  lovely  from  far  heights,  when  I 
draw  near  with  out-stretched  hand,  it  scorches, 
burns,  and  sears. 


76 


VARIETY 

Old  Nature  is  a  conjuror  and  delights  in 
playing  tricks.  She  loves  to  bring  out  colors 
that  we  didn't  know  she  had,  like  a  mother  draw 
ing  treasure  from  an  unguessed  secret  pocket  to 
delight  her  children's  eyes. 

There  is  a  red,  red  road  I  know  that  runs 
between  tall,  close  grown  pines,  their  dark  green 
boughs  its  canopy.  When  I  emerge  at  sunset 
from  that  cool  and  fragrant  tunnel,  its  floor 
slashed  with  long  bars  of  sunny  light,  I  know 
not  what  the  distant  view  will  give,  for  it  is  ever 
new.  I  have  seen  from  near  that  tunnel's  mouth 
the  distant  mountains  all  a  mass  of  golden  rose, 
no  hint  of  colors  of  an  hour  gone;  and  I  have 
seen  those  hills  a  mass  of  varied  shades,  from 
deepest  green  of  nearest  crests,  to  purple,  blue, 
then  blue-gray,  till  the  country  over  there  is 
melted  with  the  sky;  and  then,  again,  it  is  a 
sea  of  sage-green  billows,  with  red  and  yellow 
gashes  running  from  their  topmost  crests,  a 
brilliant  sky  above;  and  yet  again,  ridge  after 
ridge  of  those  same  hills  is  buried  clean  in  snowy 
white,  a  cold  blue  flawless  sky  above.  I  never 
know  how  those  far  hills  will  greet  me,  nor  what 
appeal  their  changeful  moods  may  make. 
77 


78     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

The  desert,  too,  with  its  cyclopean  mountains 
is  wrapped  at  dawn  and  evening  in  soft  veils  of 
mystery.  Those  jagged  peaks  and  ridges  that 
in  the  clear,  hot  light  of  desert  day  are  sternly 
stamped  against  a  burning  sky,  at  dawn  are 
changed  to  misty,  gracious  lines  of  purple 
beauty  edged  with  rose,  and  then  they  seem  to 
hold  an  unnamable  promise  and  a  bright  allure. 
At  dusk  they  show  blue-black  with  a  still  air  of 
brooding  mystery.  Their  lines  are  softened,  as 
at  dawn,  but  now  they  loom  as  somber  shadows 
of  the  great  unknown,  nor  do  they  urge  and 
beckon  as  in  the  waking  day. 

And  there  is  a  desert  Will-o'-the-Wisp  that 
flashes  in  the  pearl-gray  dawn  and  in  the  velvet 
blackness  of  the  night,  upon  the  desert  floor. 
It  is  the  light  of  Ah  Hee's  fire,  that  cooks  us 
at  dawn  the  far-brought  and  often  the  far-flung 
egg,  and  at  evening  the  "  T  bone  "  steak, 


FRIENDS  OF  MINE 


THE  FORTY-NINESS 

Hemming  the  desert  on  the  west  there  rises  a 
huge  rampart,  gray  and  cold,  that  hides  from 
desert  eyes  the  gentler,  grassy,  tree-clad  hills 
where  the  placer  country  lies.  And  to  that 
placer  country  came  the  Argonauts  in  1849. 

She  was  tall  for  a  girl  and,  though  slender, 
gave  promise  of  future  roundness.  Her  mouth 
was  rather  wide  and  humorous,  her  color  bril 
liant,  her  hair  blue-black,  and  her  eyes  were  vio 
let,  but  laughing.  I  don't  know  why,  but  I 
always  associate  violet  eyes  with  seriousness. 
Hers,  however,  were  like  violets  that  held  the 
reflected  sunlight  of  the  sky  above  them.  And 
then  she  had  dimples.  I  mention  them  because, 
perhaps,  they  helped  her  through  it  all.  And 
I  mention  her  first  because  she  counted — and 
counts — the  most,  but  there  was,  also,  her  hus 
band.  She  was  only  eighteen  and  he  was  three 
years  older — the  correct  Victorian  ages  for 
marrying,  I  believe,  though  they  had  been  mar 
ried  a  year.  He  was  a  nice  boy  with  kind, 
brown  eyes,  and  just  after  the  '49  excitement 
he  went  West  and  she  would  not  be  left  behind. 
They  both  hailed  from  a  birthplace  of  sail 
ors,  therefore  it  was  a  trip  around  Cape  Horn 
81 


S3     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

and  so  up  the  western  coast  to  the  Golden  Gate 
and  then,  as  quickly  as  could  be,  to  the  nearest 
land  of  promise. 

That  nearest  land  of  promise  was  a  pine  clad 
mountain  land  where  the  snow  lay  deep  in  the 
winter,  where  the  gulches  roared  with  the  rains, 
yet  over  the  lofty  mountains  to  the  east  there 
lay  a  hot  and  glittering  yellow  waste  where  all 
the  gold  was  sand.  No  eastern  miners  came 
there  until  later  to  search  its  bordering  hills  for 
gold,  for  it  looked,  and  was,  a  grim,  forbidding 
land. 

She  lived  in  a  canvas  house,  this  gently  bred 
eastern  girl.  She  could  see  the  tarantulas 
crawling  on  the  walls,  she  learned  to  keep  a 
sharp  eye  abroad  for  rattlers,  she  found  that 
the  Digger  Indians  were  cowards,  for  she  drove 
away  twenty  of  them  with  an  empty  forty-five, 
and  in  that  little  canvas  shack  she  gave  birth 
to  her  two  girls,  with  no  woman  near,  no  doctor. 
There  were  floods  one  winter  in  that  valley  where 
her  big  brown-eyed  hunter  sluiced  the  golden 
sands,  and  he  rescued  a  Chinaman  from  being 
swept  away,  one  day,  but  the  drenching  he  got 
killed  him  —  the  Chinaman  survived. 

So  Sally  Everett  was  left  in  a  narrow  gulch 
beside  a  rapid  mountain  river,  where  the  sloping 
canon  walls  ran  steeply  up,  where  the  shadows 
left  late  in  the  day  and  came  back  again  early. 
There  was  a  little  flat  beside  the  stream  where 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     83 

her  small  canvas  house  stood  with  some  others  — 
and  that  was  all.  No,  not  quite  all,  for  moun 
tain  lions  and  wildcats  came  to  the  edge  of  the 
timber,  deer  and  bears  sometimes  crossed  the 
flat,  the  birds  sang  at  her,  the  little  singing 
stream  made  music,  and  she  had  the  worshipful 
devotion  of  every  man  in  camp,  and  while  dress 
was  rough  and  life  simple,  the  earliest  camps 
brought  into  their  circle  the  brains,  the  educa 
tion,  and  the  fine  manliness  of  their  day. 

But  the  two  little  girls  were  growing  bigger 
and  so  she  must  go  back  —  across  the  Isthmus 
this  time  —  for  school  is  the  rod  of  a  tyrant  to  a 
dutiful  mother.  Whither  that  beckons  she  must 
follow.  When  she  reached  home,  the  little  buck 
skin  sack,  filled  with  gold-dust  when  she  left  the 
camp,  was  almost  empty  of  the  coins  for  which 
she  had  exchanged  it.  Her  family  was  poor. 
She  would  not  be  a  burden  to  them,  and  those 
little  mouths  must  be  fed,  so  she  went  to  work. 
A  second  time  she  loved  and  married,  and  then 
her  young  soldier  husband  answered  that  first 
stern  call  for  volunteers  in  the  days  of  '61,  even 
as  the  other  had  responded  to  the  mad  call  of 
gold.  So  he  went,  and  had  his  fortunes  all  to 
make  when  he  came  back.  Then  followed  years 
of  pinching  and  privation,  and  other  children 
came  to  be  a  worry  and  a  comfort,  also  a  gen 
erous  spur  to  new  endeavor.  Her  brood  grew 
up  and  scattered  to  the  four  corners  of  this 


84     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

stronger,  greater  America.  To  the  scenes  of 
her  early  life  of  hardship  one  son  has  returned, 
equipped  with  all  the  knowledge  that  modern 
science  gives,  with  machinery  and  money  to 
trace  the  source  of  that  old  golden  flood.  His 
wife  he  leaves  behind,  for  despite  the  sixty  odd 
years  gone,  the  living's  still  too  primitive,  the 
country  is  too  rough. 

When  Sally  Everett  speaks  of  '49  there's  a 
sparkle  in  her  bright  old  eyes:  and  when  she 
hears  the  martial  music  of  the  tense  days  of  '61 
the  color  flames  in  her  still  smooth  cheeks  and 
those  violet  eyes  are  suffused  with  unshed  tears. 
The  strong  and  valiant  spirit  of  the  Forty- 
niner's  wife  still  looks  from  her  eyes  —  and  life 
is  good  and  there  remains  much  gold  to  find. 
And  so  she  smiles.  For  she  still  has  those 
dimples. 


A  MISSOURI  MEERSCHAUM 

I  sing  not  the  song  of  the  cigarette  nor  the 
fragrant  Cuban  leaf,  but  the  song  of  the  Mis 
souri  Meerschaum, —  the  good  old  corn-cob 
pipe. 

In  a  land  where  distance  is  measured  by  the 
time  it  takes  to  consume  "  six  cigareets  an'  a 
couple  o'  quids,"  tobacco  is  surely  King.  If  the 
cigarette  is  the  populace,  the  cigar  the  haute 
noblesse,  then  the  old  Missouri  Meerschaum  is 
guide,  counselor,  and  friend.  Its  long  thin  stem 
tells  a  dreamy  tale  of  brooding,  reedy  marshes 
where  wide  sheets  of  quiet  water  lie  in  unruffled 
sleep,  and  its  bowl  recalls  fair  memories  of  the 
land  where  the  sweet  corn  grows. 

The  cigarette  is  a  dainty  thing,  but  it  reaches 
and  twists  the  nerves ;  the  cigar  is  a  delicate  lux 
ury  that  doesn't  grow  in  the  wilds ;  and  the  quid 
—  well,  as  Lincoln  said  on  a  time  when  speaking 
of  something  else,  "  For  people  who  like  that 
sort  of  a  thing,  that's  the  sort  of  thing  they'd 
like."  Though  I  know  many  men  enjoy  the 
quid,  and  some  of  my  good  friends  chew,  yet  I'm 
sure  that  the  quid  doesn't  comfort  them  as  my 
warm  old  friend  does  me.  I  tell  it  my  troubles 
and  my  joys,  it  stays  with  me  day  and  night, 
85 


86     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

and  the  visions  I  see  in  its  curling  smoke  are 
good  and  passing  fair,  and  I  am  the  peer  of 
any  one  when  talking  to  my  pipe. 

With  many  strange  moods  it  has  sympa 
thized,  it  has  steadied  me,  betimes,  and  has 
burned  itself  to  its  very  heart  to  give  me  of  its 
best,  and  every  time  that  my  mood  lights  up,  it 
responds  with  a  steady  glow,  burning  fragrant 
incense  to  its  loyalty  to  me,  not  with  the  scented, 
dizzying  black  perique  from  the  Orient,  nor  yet 
the  leaf  from  Connecticut,  nor  that  from  the 
Philippine  Islands,  but  with  the  fragrant 
steadiness  of  good  Virginia  plug. 

When  the  night  shuts  down,  when  shades  are 
drawn  and  the  lamp  of  evening  lit,  thoughts 
kindly,  weird,  elusive,  bright,  arise  with  the  curl 
ing  smoke,  and  in  its  blue  wreaths  crystallize  the 
ideas  born  of  day.  A  non-smoker  has  prophe 
sied  that  in  some  awful  years,  a  smoker  will  be 
a  Pariah,  a  hermit  shunned  and  scorned  and 
forced  to  live  far  from  his  kind,  whom  the  fumes 
of  his  pipe  can  never  reach.  Now  be  that  day 
far  distant,  long  after  my  day  is  sped,  though 
I  know  a  place  far,  far  from  men  in  a  clean  and 
empty  desert  land,  where  with  my  corn-cob  pipe 
alight  and  atop  a  lonely  mountain  peak,  I  may 
play  volcano  to  desire's  topmost  bent. 

When,  after  my  life's  day  has  closed,  I  go  still 
further  up,  I  pray  I  may  be  segregated  on  some 
lonely  cloud  and  permitted  to  smoke  my  pipe  in 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      87 

peace,  so  that  I  promise  solemnly  to  let  no  blue 
smoke  cloud  approach  the  ladies'  filmy  drap 
eries  upon  adjoining  clouds.  But  if,  alas  1  my 
future  life  is  planned  for  down  below,  the  to 
bacco  there  would  be  too  dry  to  smoke  with  any 
zest,  and  then,  besides  and  even  worse,  the  fumes 
of  sulphur  always  spoil  the  flavor  of  a  pipe. 
That  would  be  Hell. 


PINON 

He  was  one  of  Nevada's  Native  Sons.  His 
sire  was  as  black  as  night  and  large  for  a  desert 
horse,  and  his  proud  neck  had  never  been  caught 
in  the  cowboy's  circling  rope.  His  mother  was 
a  blooded  bay,  and  brought  to  his  fiery  desert 
blood  the  breeding  of  the  East.  She  had  been 
lured  away  from  a  rancher's  field  by  that  lordly 
desert  chief,  and  no  art  could  tole  her  home 
again,  for  the  Arab  in  her  blood  responded  to 
the  desert's  call  —  and  she  knew  the  ways  of 
men.  And  so  when  the  herd  went  into  the  hills 
when  the  grass  began  to  spring,  her  colt  was 
born  upon  a  flat  and  grassy  mountain  bench, 
and  not  in  the  sheltered  stable  where  she  had 
spent  her  youth. 

And  so  he  ran  with  his  mother,  and  so  he  grew 
in  strength.  He  learned  to  step  over  shelving 
rock  without  slipping  a  quarter  inch,  he  learned 
to  avoid  the  poison  springs,  and  where  sweet 
water  ran,  and  he  learned  to  drink  all  he  could 
hold  when  he  came  to  a  water  hole.  He  learned 
to  run  from  a  loud  sharp  sound  that  came  from 
the  back  of  a  distant  horse  who  would  not  join 
his  herd,  for  following  one  such  loud  report  he 
saw  a  playfellow  stumble,  fall,  and  never  rise 
88 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     89 

again.  He  learned  to  swerve  from  a  rattler's 
coil  as  swift  as  a  flash  of  light,  but  most  of  all, 
he  learned  to  flee  from  a  strange  shape  with  a 
rope  that  followed  him  fast  and  followed  him 
far,  and  though  ever  he  got  away,  from  behind 
some  boulder  or  rocky  bend  it  would  suddenly 
dash  again,  until  one  hot  and  fateful  day,  far 
from  his  usual  range,  a  cool,  dark  canon  drew 
him  on  until  he  found  himself  in  a  box,  all 
smooth,  sheer  walls  ahead.  Then  turning 
around  with  a  startled  snort,  sensing  his  human 
foe,  he  looked  down  the  steep-walled  canon  bed 
up  which  he  had  lightly  stepped,  and  saw  three 
shapes  against  the  light,  and  each  shape  had  a 
rope.  His  satin  skin  was  quivering  and  his  nos 
trils  panting  wide,  but  he  stood  backed  up 
against  the  wall  and  glared  with  laid  back  ears. 

Three  circling  swift  ropes  caught  him,  and 
then  he  reared  with  an  angry  scream,  and  then 
he  went  to  his  knees  —  another  young,  wild,  free 
thing  was  caught  to  be  the  slave  of  man.  But 
I  wonder  if  he  counted  and  treasured  up  his  re 
venge  ?  For  before  he  could  be  trusted,  he  had 
killed  exactly  three  of  those  hated  shapes  with 
long  coiled  ropes  who  had  ridden  him  at  the 
first. 

He  was  not  very  large,  nor  very  small,  but 
would  dance  with  two  hundred  pounds,  with  a 
big,  round  barrel  and  short,  flat  back  and  a  tail 
that  swept  the  ground,  and  his  color  between  the 


90      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

black  and  red  of  his  sire  and  his  dam.  His  flat 
knees  tapered  to  rounded  hoofs,  but  his  beauty 
was  his  head ;  wide,  showing  brain,  between  the 
eyes,  with  little  pointed  ears  that  never  in  all 
his  life  laid  flat  after  he'd  killed  those  three,  and 
a  large,  full  sparkling  eye  that  would  see  a  fly 
light  on  his  back  as  quick  as  it  would  the  road 
ahead. 

He  had  ridden  range  in  Nevada  one  hundred 
miles  to  the  day ;  he  had  trailed  a  lady's  skirts 
on  his  back  and  carried  her  safe  and  well;  he 
had  been  a  desert  packer's  mount  and  captained 
a  string  of  mules ;  he  had  snaked  mine  timbers 
where  wheels  could  not  go,  and  worked  on  a 
miner's  whim;  yet  today,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
five,  he  will  climb  in  one  hour  a  steep  rough  trail 
that  another  horse  climbs  in  two.  A  bronco  is 
not  a  jumping  horse  —  from  his  sires  he  may 
have  learned  that  landing  all  fours  on  a  heap 
of  rocks  is  not  good  for  the  desert-bred.  So 
he  slides  down  the  side  of  a  gully,  or  wash,  and 
climbs  up  the  further  side,  or  takes  one  long, 
slow  step  across,  if  the  gully  be  not  too  wide; 
but  when  Pinon  comes  to  a  gully  he  clears  it, 
light  as  a  bird,  and  shakes  his  handsome  head 
when  he  alights,  as  I've  seen  a  hunter  do. 

Now  here  is  the  strangest  thing  of  all  when 
you  recall  his  youth,  for  when  you  head  him 
for  the  herd,  his  tail  plumes  out  and  his  head 
goes  up  and  his  ears  point  straight  ahead,  his 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      91 

eyes  are  bright  and  he  wheels  like  light,  and 
works  without  rein  or  spur;  for  the  keenest  joy 
in  life  he  knows  is  when  he  bears  you  upon  his 
back  to  help  you  corral  his  kind. 


FOR  SHERIFF 

The  summer  was  at  its  height.  The  pri 
maries  were  to  be  held  the  latter  part  of  August 
and  the  fight  for  the  election  of  a  new  sheriff 
was  waxing  hot.  From  a  monetary  standpoint 
it  was  the  most  desirable  elective  office  to  be 
contested,  since  the  salary  was  big  for  the 
desert,  the  perquisites  considerable,  the  work 
light,  as  the  country  was  at  peace.  Only  once 
in  a  great  while  was  the  sheriff  called  upon  to 
chase  a  horse  thief,  his  duties  being  largely 
those  of  an  undertaker  presiding  over  the  fu 
neral  obsequies  of  defunct  mines ;  but  when  he 
was  called  upon  to  fulfil  the  strenuous  duties  of 
his  office,  the  trail  would  take  him  over  wild  and 
gloomy  spaces  and  sometimes  across  the  deserts 
of  another  state.  But  this  was  seldom. 

In  the  space  of  a  few  short  days  I  was  more 
visited  by  would-be  county  officials  than  in  years 
before.  Down  the  desert  they  rode  from  the 
county  town,  up  through  the  rough,  wild  coun 
try  bordering  those  level  sands,  scouring  the 
flats,  the  canons,  the  ridges  to  find,  interview, 
persuade,  the  desert  rancher  and  the  lone  miner, 
a  visit  to  whose  shacks  might  entail  a  deviation 
of  many  miles  from  the  main  traveled  road,  for 
92 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      93 

in  this  desert  land  every  vote  would  count. 
They  visited  every  big  and  little  mine  in  the 
hope  of  swaying  the  boss  by  specious  promises, 
and  his  men  by  genial  talk  and  big  cigars.  My 
own  little  mine  was  high  on  a  steep,  rocky  slope, 
miles  above  the  desert,  but  there  I  met  them  all. 
Ranchers  and  miners  they  were,  some  of  them 
men  who  had  held  petty  office,  and  they  mounted 
the  steep  and  winding  canon  road  to  the  ledge 
where  the  office  and  bunkhouse  stood,  their  lean 
and  rangy  desert  horses  hardly  puffing  after  the 
eight  mile  uphill  climb. 

The  first  to  honor  me  was  Jim  Lorgan.  His 
lips  dripped  civic  virtue,  but  his  mustache  was 
long  and  drooping,  the  kind  that  seems  to  sug 
gest  an  alcohol-dipped  brush.  After  proffering 
the  inevitable,  the  electoral  cigar,  Jim  held  forth 
upon  the  subject  of  his  visit. 

"  I'm  a  runnin'  fer  sheriff  o'  this  here  county, 
an'  there's  five  o'  us  in  the  race,  so  it'll  be  some 
fight,  fer  bootleggin'  is  goin'  ter  be  a  strong 
issue.  Now,  I  ain't  aimin'  ter  say  nothin'  agin 
any  other  candidate,  fer  that  ain't  the  way  ter 
win,  by  knockin'  the  other  feller,  an'  I  don't  in 
tend  ter  bring  no  personal  things  into  this  here 
campaign.  Shelton  Corliss,  him  as  is  Sheriff 
now,  is  in  the  race  agin,  he's  one  o'  us  five.  / 
ain't  got  nothin'  agin'  Shelton.  He's  a  pretty 
good  feller,  though  some  do  say  that  he'd  orter 
had  Tom  Halliday  arrested  fer  bootleggin',  even 


94     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

if  Tom  did  marry  Corliss's  sister,  fer  everybody 
knows  that  you  could  go  into  Tom's  Hotel  on 
the  aidge  o'  the  desert  at  Sandyville  and  get  a 
shot  o'  hooch  any  time,  an'  Corliss's  brother 
helpin'  Tom  about  the  Hotel  as  handy  man,  with 
a  whiskey  nose  on  him  the  color  o'  a  desert 
geranium.  But,  as  I  say,  Shelton's  all  right, 
an'  I  ain't  agoin'  ter  knock.  I  believe  in  livin' 
by  the  law,  an'  I'm  goin'  ter  enforce  it  if  I'm 
'lected." 

After  much  more  of  the  same  in  praise  of 
the  other  four,  Lorgan  left.  Corliss  must  have 
been  on  his  trail  for  it  was  only  a  couple  of 
hours  later  that  the  Sheriff  turned  into  my 
mine  trail.  Six  feet  four  he  stood,  and  all  in 
proportion  to  his  inches,  with  a  massive  featured 
face  smooth  shaven,  a  wide  brimmed  pearl-gray 
Stetson  shading  his  big  close-cropped  head, 
coatless,  his  vest  hanging  open,  and  blue-over- 
alled. 

"  I  haven't  met  you,  but  I  heard  o'  you,  and 
I've  come  ter  ask  you  ter  vote  for  my  reelection 
at  the  primaries.  I'm  aimin'  ter  keep  personali 
ties  out  o'  my  fight  for  Sheriff.  Course,  I  know 
I  got  enemies,  but  I  don't  want  ter  get  elected 
again  by  throwin'  any  slurs  at  anybody.  But, 
now,  there's  Jim  Lorgan.  He  was  my  deputy 
for  awhile,  and  now  he's  runnin'  against  me. 
Jim's  not  such  a  bad  feller,  but  in  this  dry  dis 
trict,  Jim  run  a  bootleg  joint  when  he  was 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      95 

deputy  sheriff,  and  they  do  say  that  he  punishes 
a  good  deal  of  his  own  bootleg." 

While  I  had  him  there,  I  meant  to  find  out  the 
story  from  his  own  lips,  a  story  reciting  that 
Corliss  had  taken  advantage  of  his  position  as 
sheriff  to  assault  outrageously  a  local  store 
keeper  about  half  his  size. 

"  It  ain't  any  such  thing  as  that  report  says, 
fer  Bill  Robinson  and  I  have  always  been  good 
friends.  We  was  doin'  some  business  together 
and  there  was  some  dispute  between  us  about 
the  money  settlement  o'  that  same  business.  I 
was  in  Bill's  one  day,  when  he  got  some  abusive, 
claimin'  I  hadn't  handed  over  all  the  cash  due 
him  on  the  deal.  I  wasn't  say  in'  much,  when 
Bill  come  up  close  ter  me,  still  talkin'  wild,  and 
actin'  like  he  was  goin'  ter  land  on  me.  It  was 
in  his  store,  and  we  was  both  in  back  near  the 
safe,  and  I  just  put  up  my  hand  —  it  was  flat 
open  —  and  pushed  his  face  away.  I  was  some 
surprised  when  he  went  down  all  in  a  heap,  and 
I  ain't  seen  him  since.  I  heard  that  he  was  in 
bed  four  days,  and  went  around  his  store  with 
his  head  all  bandaged  up  fer  two  weeks,  but  I 
don't  see  how  one  push  could  'adone  that.  And 
I  don't  most  usually  carry  any  gun,  neither, 
and  hadn't  one  on  then. 

"  Now,  this  question  o'  bootleggin'  is  a  big 
issue  in  this  campaign,  and  if  I'm  elected,  I  in 
tend  ter  enforce  the  law,  as  I  have  been  doin',  no 


96     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

matter  who  is  guilty.  Yes,  even  if  it  was  my 
own  brother  doin'  it,  I'd  haul  him  over  the 
coal*." 

He  left,  riding  on  to  a  bigger  camp  beyond, 
and  the  next  morning,  Sam  Applegate  said, 
"  Howdy,"  tied  his  horse  to  a  ring  set  in  the 
corner  of  my  bunkhouse,  seated  himself  on  the 
long  bench  before  the  door,  and  opened  fire. 

"  Reckon  you've  been  pestered  some  these  days 
by  want-to-be  sheriffs?  Well,  here's  another 
one.  I  ain't  never  done  nothin'  in  politics,  me 
bein'  a  rancher,  but  I  hold  that  it's  a  office  that 
hadn't  orter  have  nothin'  to  do  with  politics,  an' 
this  bootleggin's  got  ter  stop.  There's  a  lot  o' 
talk  goin'  back  and  forth  among  the  candidates, 
some  knockin',  I  tell  you,  but  I  ain't  indulgin'  in 
none.  Shelton  Corliss  is  a  good  feller,  but  he's 
held  the  job  three  terms,  and  that  orter  be 
enough,  besides,  though  I  won't  say  his  brother's 
a  bootlegger,  he  hangs  'round  awful  close  ter 
a  feller  what  is,  helps  him  in  fact.  Don't  you 
guess  the  sheriff  is  onto  that?  You  betcher! 
Jim  Lorgan,  now,  he's  all  right,  but  he  don't 
make  no  bones  about  biddin'  for  the  bootleg 
vote,  an'  them  bootleggers  knows  they  can  keep 
up  their  trade  if  he  gits  in  —  Jim's  a  good  feller, 
though  —  but  /  ain't  tyin'  myself  up  by  beggin' 
them  cusses  ter  vote  f er  me.  No,  Sir  — " 

His  talk  was  interrupted  by  the  sight  of  a 
new  arrival,  riding  along  the  ore  road  towards 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO     97 

the  bunkhouse,  and  there  was  a  stiff,  strained 
silence  as  the  newcomer  alighted.  Applegate 
reckoned  he'd  be  "  pullin'  his  freight,"  as  he  had 
a  long  ride  ahead  of  him,  but  he'd  see  me  again 
on  his  way  back. 

The  new  arrival  was  short  and  stout,  and 
wore  canvas  leggings  over  good  store  trousers. 
He  was  spectacled  and  his  head  showed  slightly 
bald  when  he  took  off  his  stiff  straw  hat  to  mop 
his  forehead. 

"  Whew,  that's  some  climb !  My  name's 
Hiram  Brown,  and  I'm  running  for  sheriff 
against  this  bunch  of  Desert  Rats.  It's  a  bus 
iness  proposition  and  should  be  handled  in  a 
business  way.  There  should  be  no  mutual  re 
criminations  in  a  political  campaign.  Bootleg 
ging  in  this  county  has  become  a  curse  and  I 
pledge  my  word  to  put  it  out  of  business  if  you 
give  me  your  vote  at  the  primaries,  and  I'm 
elected.  My  opponents  don't  like  me  because 
they  know  I  know  'em,"  and  his  small  black  eyes, 
pinched  curved  nose,  and  hard  mouth  gave  him 
the  look  of  a  bird  of  prey  as  he  got  out  this 
speech. 

I  had  heard  of  Hi  Brown.  He  owned  stores 
in  different  towns  in  the  county  and  he  used  in 
decent  haste  and  took  much  pleasure  in  annex 
ing  claims  and  ranches  for  any  little  bill  that 
could  not  be  paid  on  the  dot.  The  reason  for 
such  failure  to  pay  mattered  not  to  Hiram.  I 


98     THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

happened  to  know  that  he  sold  certain  liquids 
and  fiery  extracts  in  large  quantities  to  known 
bootleggers  on  the  quiet,  nor  was  he  over  curi 
ous  about  the  reason  for  such  large  purchases  of 
those  fiery  liquids  so  long  as  he  got  a  stiff  cash 
price  for  them.  In  a  "  dry  "  country,  a  con 
scientious  storekeeper  refuses  to  sell  such  sup 
plies  when  he  has  reason  to  suspect  that  they 
are  being  put  to  illicit  use.  Hiram  left  as 
briskly  as  he  came,  saying  as  he  got  quickly 
into  his  saddle, 

"  I'll  hope  for  your  vote  at  the  primaries,  Sir. 
This  county  needs  to  be  cleaned  up  and  I  have 
certain  means  that  I  can  bring  to  bear  to  run  it 
right." 

He  climbed  to  his  saddle  as  he'd  climb  a  tree, 
nor  mounted  with  the  cowboy's  easy  swing,  then 
rode  on  like  a  sack  of  meal,  but  busily. 

The  fifth  aspirant  was  yet  to  call  on  me,  and 
I  looked  for  his  coming  with  interest  for  I'd 
heard  much  of  him.  Next  morning,  when  the 
desert  lay  below  all  bathed  in  early  sunshine, 
when  the  purple  canon  shadows  were  changing 
to  their  daytime  hues  of  gray-green  brush  and 
brownish  porphyry,  a  big,  but  dainty  stepping 
desert  horse  turned  from  the  wagon  road  into 
the  trail  that  led  up  to  my  shack,  where  he 
halted  dead  at  a  gentle  pull  on  the  heavy  Span 
ish  bit.  His  rider  dismounted  with  a  swing  that 
was  all  spring  and  strength.  Pulling  the  reins 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      99 

over  his  horse's  head,  he  tied  him  to  the  ground, 
then  paused  for  a  moment  beside  him  to  stroke 
the  powerful,  arching  neck,  to  stroke  the  fore 
head  between  two  eyes  that  were  wide  and  full 
and  bright.  After  a  final  pat  and  a  low-toned 
word,  he  turned  with  his  hand  outstretched.  A 
tall,  lean  frame  that  showed  strength  and  grace 
was  his,  and  a  lean,  tanned  face,  gray  eyes  that 
held  a  whimsical  light,  a  good  square  chin,  and 
a  laughing  mouth  that  was  swept  by  a  light 
mustache.  He  was  clad  in  conventional  desert 
dress :  blue  overalls  over  heavy  boots  high  heeled 
and  heavily  spurred  and  an  open  throated  flan 
nel  shirt  beneath  an  unbuttoned  vest.  Those 
vests !  They  are  always  open,  but  worn  on  the 
hottest  days,  and  are  as  much  of  a  horseman's 
dress  in  the  desert  as  his  hat.  They  hold  his 
cigareet  papers,  his  matches,  tobacco,  pipe,  and 
perhaps  that's  why  they  are  so  loved. 

"  Howdy,  Friend,"  he  drawled  to  me,  in  a 
pleasant  boyish  voice.  "  I  reckon  you're  filled 
up  with  sheriffs,  but  I'm  out  to  play  the  game 
with  the  rest.  My  name  is  Archie  Hamilton, 
an'  my  friends  just  made  me  run.  I  never 
ain't  did  no  politics,  but  I  reckon  I  could  try, 
an'  I  know  the  country  from  A  to  Z,  an'  all 
the  bad  hombres,  too."  Then  with  a  whimsical 
smile  he  added,  as  he  looked  at  me.  "  Maybe 
that  ain't  no  recommend. 

"  They're  makin'  bootleg  the  slogan,  an'  o' 


100      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

course  that  there's  O.  K.,  but  Hell!  we've  all 
made  it  or  drunk  the  stuff  or  winked  at  them  as 
did,  an'  I  been  no  better  than  all  the  rest,  but, 
friend,  I'll  tell  you  this,"  and  his  laughing  eyes 
were  serious  now,  with  a  deep  and  earnest  glow, 
"  I  got  a  young  wife  an'  a  little  kid,  an'  I  prom 
ised  Jean  when  I  married  her  that  I  would  cut 
out  the  booze,  an'  I  ain't  had  a  shot  o'  hooch 
since  then,  though  I  was  a  Hellion  once.  You 
don't  know  me,  so  I  tell  you  this  to  let  you  know 
that  what  I  promise,  I  aim  to  do,  an'  if  I  am 
elected  to  this  here  job  an'  take  the  oath  as 
sheriff  —  well,  I  ain't  never  broke  my  word." 

He  didn't  offer  me  a  cigar  —  for  that  he  had 
my  silent  thanks  —  but  sat  on  the  bench  beside 
my  door,  looking  musingly  down  over  canon 
walls  to  the  yellow  desert  far  below. 

"  Say,  Pard,  you're  clost  to  Heaven  here. 
Ain't  this  one  o'  God's  own  days !  "  Then  with 
a  self-amused  chuckle  at  his  own  seriousness, 
"  My  rivals  all  got  the  start  o'  me  an'  I  got  a 
great  big  job  ahead,  so  I  reckon  I'll  hit  the 
trail.  I  hope  our  trails  will  cross  in  town,  an' 
whether  I'm  sheriff  or  punchin'  cows,  I'll  sure  be 
glad  to  see  you  there." 

With  a  firm  handclasp  and  adios  he  was  in 
his  saddle  and  up  the  trail,  riding  along  at  a 
shuffling  jog,  rolling  a  cigareet. 

And  I  knew  where  my  vote  would  go. 


THAT  COUNTRY  OVER  THERE 

A  mauve  colored  burro  in  a  purple  canon 
whose  steep  wall  spires  are  tipped  with  fire, 
piercing  the  pearl  and  gray  of  dawn.  The 
burro  was  driven  up  the  canon  road  by  a  man 
not  old,  but  bent,  yet  his  step  was  springy,  his 
air  was  free,  and  his  glance  was  searching,  keen, 
from  a  pair  of  steady,  clear  gray  eyes  that 
noted  everything.  His  overalls  were  blue  can 
vas,  light  blue  his  summer  shirt,  and  he  fitted 
into  the  landscape  as  much  as  the  joshua-trees, 
even  his  light  gray  Stetson  lent  a  harmonious 
note.  His  burro  was  laden  with  two  months' 
grub  and  cooking  and  mining  tools.  He  had 
but  a  dollar  to  his  name,  but  that  was  more 
than  he  could  use,  for  he  was  bound  for  a  place 
where  the  coin  of  man  will  not  buy  anything. 
He  was  somewhat  of  a  carpenter,  and  a  black 
smith  for  all  his  needs,  and  he  carried  spare 
shoes  for  his  burro,  which  he  knew  how  to  fix 
himself,  a  cook  was  he  of  the  very  best,  and  a 
pretty  good  laundryman,  a  seamster,  too, 
though  his  sewing  ran  more  to  strength  than 
delicacy.  In  the  dark  of  the  morning,  at  three 
o'clock,  at  the  town  on  the  desert's  edge,  he  had 
101 


102      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

eaten  his  bacon  and  sour  dough,  for  he  must 
be  up  in  the  hills  before  the  desert  wakes  to 
heat. 

Of  all  the  men  our  country  breeds,  the  pros 
pector  is  best  trained  for  domestic  life,  yet  the 
thing  which  forced  that  training  is  the  thing 
which  makes  him  homeless  —  the  thought  that 
he'll  yet  make  his  stake  in  that  country  over 
there.  Then  the  lure  of  the  desert  gets  into 
his  blood  and  the  waste  places  swallow  him. 

There's  a  little  town  of  a  hundred  souls  set 
down  in  a  sandy  flat,  its  houses  little  plain 
board  shacks,  with  a  small  hotel  and  a  big 
freight  shed  and  a  gambling  hall,  of  course. 
And  that  is  all,  for  the  sandy  wastes  hem  it  in 
on  every  side,  with  ramparts  of  barren  hills 
beyond,  their  high  buttes  topped  with  snow. 
When  the  stark  and  deadly  loneliness  gets  on 
their  burning  nerves,  they  have  sweet  dreams, 
these  wanderers,  of  trees  and  gurgling  brooks. 
Then  they  hie  them  forth  to  greener  scenes,  and 
leave  the  little  town,  saying  they've  had  enough 
of  it  and  are  never  coming  back,  yet  they  come 
and  come  and  come  again.  "  The  desert's  got 
'em,"  is  what  we  say,  yet  one  cannot  define  its 
charm.  There  it  lies  sleeping  its  hot,  still 
sleep,  but  very  much  alive. 

Love  of  gold?  'Tis  the  joy  of  finding  it  and 
of  seeing  a  camp  of  thousands  grow  where  he 
first  struck  his  pick,  for  the  prospector  is  really 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       103 

a  pioneer.  He  takes  the  trail  ahead  of  the 
great  army  of  enterprise  that  will  follow  later 
on,  and,  like  all  army  skirmishers,  he  draws  no 
general's  pay.  And  the  glory  when  he  strikes  it 
ridi  in  some  wild,  unheard-of  spot!  To  pass 
through  a  crowded,  big  saloon,  and  at  tables 
and  at  the  bar  to  have  men  nod  at  him  and  say, 
"  There  goes  the  feller  that  made  the  strike  that 
started  the  town  o'  Golden  Spur."  And  it  wor 
ries  him  not  and  he  does  not  care  —  he  feels, 
rather,  a  prideful  glow  —  if  in  that  same  room, 
a  few  years  later,  he  hears  men  whisper  between 
their  drinks,  "  There  goes  that  feller  that  sold 
his  claims  in  Golden  Spur  for  a  cool  half  mil 
lion  cash.  He  made  things  hum  and  in  just 
two  years  he'd  blown  every  damn  cent  in." 

But  now  he  tramps  up  the  canon  road,  on 
into  the  purple  gloom.  His  heart  and  his  feet 
and  his  purse  are  light,  though  he  has  ahead  of 
him  a  journey  that  would  daunt  the  heart  of  the 
stoutest  city  man,  for  if  he  grow  ill  or  break  a 
bone,  he'll  be  thirty  miles  from  aid,  and  will  have 
to  trust  to  the  luck  of  the  prospector  to  find 
water  at  his  need. 

Where  is  he  going?  He  knows  not,  quite,  but 
desert  miners  in  frequent  gossips  have  told  of 
districts  here  and  there  where  he  has  never  been, 
and  in  his  dreams  he  sees  a  glowing  prospect 
they've  passed  by.  It  matters  not  where  his 
feet  may  lead  him,  so  it  be  to  a  land  that's  new, 


104      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

for  ever  his  mind  sees  a  golden  promise  in  the 
country  he  has  not  seen.  There's  a  misty  cloud 
on  the  mountain  ridge  over  which  a  new  trail 
dips,  in  the  shape  of  a  beckoning  finger,  and  his 
spirit  obeys  the  call.  So  he  talks  to  himself  in 
a  cheerful  way  and  pulls  hard  on  his  pipe,  for 
after  brave  dreams  he  is  headed  at  last  for  that 
country  over  there. 


THE  MINER 

His  home  is  a  one  room  canvas  shack,  its 
frame,  thin  scantlings  and  small  pine  poles  that 
sometimes  break  with  the  weight  of  snow  upon 
its  canvas  roof.  His  stove  is  a  flimsy  sheet-iron 
affair,  and  he  gathers  his  wood  from  day  to  day. 
His  fuel  is  pinon  pine  and  brush,  for  nothing 
but  these  and  Joshua-trees  will  grow  on  those 
steep  rock  slopes.  For  water  to  drink  and  for 
other  use,  he  has  none  but  melted  snow  which 
stays  where  it  drifted,  in  a  tunnel  mouth,  white 
and  cold  until  late  in  July.  That  is  his  pre 
cious  reservoir,  and  he  melts  it  at  his  need.  His 
two  burros  scarce  can  keep  the  trail,  so  narrow 
and  rough  it  is,  but  he  drives  them  ten  miles  to 
the  town  once  a  month  to  stock  up  with  beans, 
tobacco,  coffee,  flour,  sugar,  tea,  and  salt,  then 
drives  them  home  over  dangerous  trails  some 
times  knee-deep  in  snow,  and  in  places  snow- 
slides  have  buried  the  trail  from  ten  to  twenty 
feet.  He  is  tall  and  walks  with  a  clumping 
tread  from  wearing  hob-nailed  boots.  His 
wrist  is  leather-strapped  from  a  break  it  sus 
tained  once  in  a  mine.  He  is  not  old,  he  is  not 
young,  but  his  eye  is  blue  and  clear.  The 
whole  long  year  he  digs  alone  and  rarely  sees 
105 


106       THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

a  soul.  He  wants  no  partner  in  his  toil,  for  he 
knows  there's  a  fortune  in  his  claims  if  only  the 
man  with  money  will  come  to  purchase  at  his 
price. 

Scarce  wider  than  his  burro's  tread,  the  nar 
row  shelf  in  the  mountain  slope  winds  down  to 
his  lonely  little  house,  and  there  it  abruptly 
stops,  for  he  lives  at  the  end  of  the  trail.  The 
hills  rise  steeply  all  about  the  bowl  where  his 
cabin  stands  and  patches  of  snow  cling  to  them 
for  eight  months  in  the  year.  From  the  top  of 
the  trail  above  his  shack,  wild  mountain  ranges 
roll  away  till  the  haze  of  distance  merges  them 
with  the  far  horizon's  misted  rim.  His  house 
stands  at  the  bottom  of  a  well  of  lofty  hills,  so 
the  winds  that  forever  tear  across  the  ridges 
high  above  are  never  felt  at  the  bottom  of  his 
well.  And  he  is  truth  personified. 

It  is  a  wild  and  lonely  spot,  so  lonely  and  so 
wild  it  holds  a  secure  sense  of  safe  retreat,  and 
he  has  grown  to  love  it.  He  does  not  hate  his 
kind,  his  hand  is  open,  and  his  purse,  to  every 
man  who  needs.  All  the  gossip  of  wild  places  he 
gives  and  takes  at  every  cabin  on  his  way  from 
town.  His  mining  is  as  primitive  as  in  days 
long  gone  by,  his  tools,  a  single  jack  and  hand- 
drill,  his  equipment,  a  windlass  and  a  wooden 
bucket.  Truly,  the  Forty-niner  was  hardly 
more  the  pioneer  than  he,  for  then  men  came  in 
droves,  and  these,  now  lonesome,  cold,  and  rocky 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       107 

hills  were  full  of  human  life.  But  he  lives  all 
alone  and  with  no  more  necessities  than  they, 
although  his  gun  is  of  more  modern  pattern. 
He  writes  but  rarely,  reads  the  papers  avidly, 
and  devours  the  melodrama  in  cheap  magazines. 
And  he's  a  very  child,  but,  also,  he's  a  man. 


GOPHER  HOLES 

So  dark,  so  close,  so  very,  very  still !  —  so 
dark  a  candle  will  but  faintly  light  a  tiny  space ; 
so  close  the  air,  that  candle  can  barely  keep 
alight ;  so  still  that  all  the  vital  energies  athrob 
far,  far  above  upon  the  busy  earth,  seem  puny, 
meaningless,  and  matter  not  at  all.  For  I  am 
two  hundred  feet  down  under  ground  and  a 
hundred  feet  away  from  the  shaft,  at  the  end 
of  a  narrow  drift,  while  all  the  earth  above 
seems  waiting  to  crush  that  tunnel  in,  and  that 
flickering  candle  seems  the  only  link  with  the  life 
above.  There's  a  long  slim  ladder,  its  narrow 
treads  wire-nailed,  to  hold  my  weight  —  will 
they  hold  it  safely,  I  wonder,  until  I  reach  the 
top?  In  the  roof  of  the  old  abandoned  drift  a 
mighty  boulder,  smooth  and  long,  looks  loose 
and  about  to  fall  —  will  it  start  when  I  pass 
under  it  and  flatten  me  like  a  cake?  And  the 
glug  of  a  chunk  of  heavy  quartz  dropped  into 
the  black  sump  water  has  an  ominous,  threaten 
ing  sound,  while  boyhood  tales  of  underground 
horrors  flock  to  the  memory. 

But  that  is  all  at  the  outset,  for  the  old  miner 
loves  the  earth's  dark  caves  and  is  never  so 
happy  nor  so  much  at  home  as  when  he  is  bur- 
108 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       109 

rowing  underground  on  the  trail  of  the  hidden 
pocket.  Yet  take  away  the  interest  that  lies  in 
the  game  of  hide-and-seek  for  gold,  the  glitter  of 
achievement,  the  excitement  of  the  chase,  and 
earth's  dark,  threatening  bosom  would  lure  him 
with  no  magnet  of  attraction,  for  men  are  surely 
not  by  nature  gophers.  They  are  not  built  that 
way,  for  proudly  upheld  heads  and  straight, 
upstanding  spines  were  surely  never  given  them 
to  hold  forever  at  a  groveling  angle. 

But  ever  will  be  some  to  whom  the  earth  call 
is  a  strong  command  that  may  not  be  denied, 
and  the  old  mine  gopher  was  surely  one  of  these, 
though  he  came  not  West  in  the  beginning  to 
delve  in  darkness  deep  in  Mother  Earth.  His 
coming  was  the  outgrowth  of  the  yearning  of 
the  pioneer  to  blaze  a  trail  where  all  was  new 
and  wild,  and  to  reach  back  close  to  all  those 
sincere  things  that  still  held  the  unspoiled  fresh 
ness  of  creation's  dewy  dawn.  His  very 
thoughts  of  the  giant  pines,  of  the  wild,  fierce 
beasts  of  prey,  were  sweet  imaginings  to  him 
wherein  he  pictured  a  clear,  clean  corner  of 
Mother  Nature's  old  cracked  mirror,  where  she 
still  could  see  her  face,  and  so  he  came,  too,  with 
the  spirit  of  the  boy  who  longs  to  slip  the  lead 
ing-strings  of  home,  and  pines  to  go  adventur 
ing. 

The  quest  of  gold  was  but  an  excuse  for  his 
love  of  the  primitive,  for  when  he  made  a  goodly 


110      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

strike,  he  went  not  back  to  an  ordered  life,  but 
spent  his  stake  with  a  largeness  born  of  the 
open  air,  keeping  only  enough  for  a  couple  of 
burros  and  a  prospector's  kit.  He  never  hears 
from  his  family  and  his  kin  he  has  forgot,  for  a 
shut-in  life  on  an  ordered  scale  would  choke  his 
desert  breath. 

A  bed  for  the  night  in  a  disused  shack  is  all 
the  home  he  craves,  with  his  burros  browsing 
among  the  cans  on  the  dump  outside  its  door, 
or  singing  their  desert  music  while  he  talks  to 
himself  inside;  or,  if  it  be  summer,  he's  well 
content  to  spread  his  blankets  beneath  the  stars, 
with  plenty  of  wood  and  water  near. 

His  brother  is  an  eminent  judge  who  knows 
not  the  feel  of  the  desert  wind,  and  the  old  mine 
gopher  might  have  a  home  with  him,  but  he 
prefers  the  sand  for  his  bed  and  his  burros  for 
company. 

The  man  who  sunk  that  mining  shaft  with 
its  drifts  and  ladder  and  inky  sump  was  such  a 
miner,  and  when  he  struck  rich  ore  in  the  shaft 
he  sold  the  claim  for  a  good  round  sum,  and  hit 
the  trail  with  never  a  care  till  his  money  went 
and  his  grub  gave  out,  then  he  dug  again,  in 
other  men's  mines,  until  he  had  saved  a  little 
stake. 

In  the  cool  of  a  lovely  desert  dawn  the  sandy 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       111 

hummocks  crowned  with  sage  showed  gray 
against  a  sky  of  pearl,  and  rounding  a  hummock 
ahead  of  me  two  little  burros  plodded  near, 
herded  along  by  a  tall  old  man.  His  gray  mus 
tache  swept  his  bronzed  cheeks,  his  bright  gray 
eyes  were  full  of  life,  and  he  stepped  like  a  boy 
on  a  camping  trip.  Those  burros  and  their 
burdens  were  the  whole  of  that  little  stake. 

"  Howdy,"  he  sang  out  to  me.  "  This  coun 
try's  too  plumb  full  o'  holes.  I  heard  of  a 
country  way  up  yonder  where  a  feller's  a  chance 
ter  make  a  stake,  an'  where  he  don't  stand  ter 
break  a  laig  at  every  step  in  a  gopher  hole." 
With  an  adios  he  left  me  and  I  heard  his  bur 
ros'  tinkling  bells  long  after  they  had  dropped 
from  sight  beyond  the  big  sand  dunes.  Our 
trails  have  never  crossed  since  then,  but  I  hope 
he  has  not  had  to  dig  in  another  man's  gopher 
hole. 


LOST  OPPORTUNITY 

I'm  a  sad  old  mule  with  long,  long  ears, 
An'  I've  said  goodbye  to  my  prime. 
When  I  think  of  the  pullin',  dusty  years 
I  reckon  I've  wasted  time. 
I  mind  when  my  skinner  bent  his  head 
To  fix  my  heavy  chain  trace. 
I  wish  to  cactus  I'd  kicked  him  dead, 
Planted  my  foot  in  his  face. 
For  after  his  blacksnake  done  its  worst, 
He  doubled  a  heavy  chain 
An'  flogged  my  back  till  it  like  to  burst, 
Then  cussed  me  again  an'  again. 
My  nine  big  mates  was  willin'  to  pull, 
But  on  the  wheel  was  I. 
I  didn't  budge,  just  stood  like  a  fool, 
But  the  devil  was  in  my  eye. 
I  didn't  sing,  but  I  like  to  died 
When  that  skinner  sat  on  a  rock  and  cried. 
They  was  tears  o'  rage,  an'  I  knew  his  plight, 
For  he'd  lose  his  pay  if  he  didn't  make 
The  ore  train  that  left  that  night, — 
Seven  miles  to  the  waitin'  train 
Down  a  steep  an'  rocky  road. 
I  waited  till  all  the  light  was  gone, 
Then  I  started  to  pull  the  load. 
My  mate  on  the  wheel  started  up  with  me, 
112 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       113 

My  mates  ahead  got  into  their  collars, 
My  skinner  jumped  off  his  rock  in  glee, 
For  he  still  might  save  his  dollars. 
So  he  grabs  up  the  reins,  slams  down  his  brake, 
An'  we  groaned  an'  creaked  down  the  mountain 
side. 

We're  a  mile  from  the  station  when  the  train 

pulls  out, 

An'  the  words  of  that  skinner  was  balm  to  me. 
I  couldn't  make  out  what  'twas  all  about, 
But  he  raved  at  my  hellish  deviltry. 
All  'cause  I  paid  him  back  for  the  pain 
He  gave  with  that  doubled  iron  chain. 
An'  that  is  a  sample  of  what  I  got 
When  I  helped  haul  loads  over  deserts  hot, 
An'  many  a  skinner  has  just  missed  death 
When  he's  beat  me  until  he  has  lost  his  breath. 
Now  I'm  laid  up  here  with  a  busted  leg 
In  a  dusty,  hot  corral, 
To  watch  my  fool  kin  draggin'  by 
With  droopin'  head  an'  sleepy  eye. 
I've  heard,  in  the  distant,  busy  city 
Even  a  mule  they  treat  with  pity, 
That  they  don't  follow  the  Desert  rule, 
"  He  ain't  nothin'  only  a  damn  ole  mule." 
O  ten  years  in  alfalfa  I  would  give 
For  one  kick  at  the  skinners  that  I've  let  live. 
So  I'm  wishin'  for  kicks  that  never  will  be 
An'  regrettin'  lost  opportunity. 


114      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 


PROSPECTIN' 

I'm  off  f  er  the  hills 
On  a  fishin'  trip, 
An'  I've  paid  my  bills. 
Now  here's  a  tip  — 

If  I  hear  a  lisp  from  the  Will-o'-the-Wisp, 
That  mean  little  devil,  I'll  sure  get  level, 
Fer  I'm  jist  goin'  fishin'. 
Adios ! 

If  he  shows  his  glim 
While  I'm  on  my  way 
I'll  laugh  at  him, 
Fer  I  aim  ter  stay 
In  a  shady  spot  where  it  ain't  so  hot, 
An'  where  I'm  told  there  ain't  no  gold, 
Fer  I'm  jist  goin'  fishin'. 
Adios ! 

I'll  lay  in  the  shade 
Of  a  cottonwood, 
Where  game's  a  plenty 
An'  fishin's  good, 

Fer  I  aim  ter  sorter  stick  ter  water, 
An'  loaf  an'  rest  like  all  possest, 
Fer  I'm  jist  goin'  fishin'. 
Adios ! 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       113 

Hello,  Ole  Timer! 
I  jist  got  back, 
An'  nary  a  damn  thing 
In  my  sack. 

Fishin'  ?     Hell !     I  ain't  had  a  smell 
O'  fish  or  water,  an'  I  jist  orter 
A-gone  a  fishin'. 
Dammit ! 


On  the  aidge  o'  the  Desert 
I  struck  some  float, 
An'  it  looked  so  good 
That  it  got  my  goat. 
So  I  hunted  round  over  miles  o'  ground 
Ter  locate  the  ledge  on  the  Desert's  aidge, 
When  I  orter  been  fishin'. 
Dammit ! 

Now  my  grub  is  gone 
An'  my  hands  is  sore, 
My  shoes  is  worn 
An'  my  pants  is  tore, 
My  burro's  sick  an'  I  lost  my  pick, 
An'  I  ain't  got  a  red  ter  feed  my  head, 
When  I  orter  be  eatin'  fish. 
Dammit ! 

That  float  may  a-rolled 
From  the  skinner's  load, 


116      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

But  it  showed  big  gold 

Right  by  the  road, 

IAn'  I  didn't  know  how  fur  I'd  go, 

Fer  the  outcrop  might  pop  inter  sight 

Any  minute,  an*  that  beats  fishin'. 


DRY  COLORS 


AL  DESIERTO 

Oh,  for  a  brain  that's  dipped  in  fire, 
And  a  pen  like  a  lava  flow, 
Then  I'd  make  you  feel  to  my  heart's  desire 
The  Land  Where  The  Sunsets  Go. 

Oh,  for  a  mind  with  understanding 
To  lay  the  wild  wastes  bare, 
No  need  for  your  lonely  wandering, 
My  pen  could  take  you  there. 

You'd  read  in  riots  of  color,  you'd  see 
Black  hills  against  blue  sky  lined. 
You'd  feel  its  fathomless  mystery 
And  the  sweep  of  its  mighty  wind. 

But  I  cannot  tell,  for  would  you  feel 
Its  mystery,  you  must  go 
To  ride  its  mountains  and  fierce  hot  sands, 
And  live  in  its  vivid  glow. 

Then  ho,  for  the  blazing  deserts  bare ! 

I  would  that  my  words  could  give 

A  sense  of  the  brooding  death  that's  there, 

And  the  hidden  lives  that  live. 
119 


120      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

Would  language  be  easy,  I  wonder, 
And  its  tongue  more  sweetly  heard 
Could  we  crowd  a  world  of  impressions 
Into  one  luminous  word? 

But  no  word  can  paint  its  splendor 

Nor  its  grim  menace  tell, 

For  the  desert  to  some  is  the  hand  of  God, 

And  some  men  call  it  Hell. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       121 


A  DESERT  DAY 

The  sun  is  glinting  on  far  mountain  snows. 
A  freight  team's  coming  from  the  distant  town. 
I  see  a  long  dust  column  where  it  crawls, 
For  it  moves  miles  below  me,  far,  far  down, 
When   the   wind   blows    up   the   canon   in   the 
morning. 

A  thin,  blue  smoke  thread  trails  a  tiny  train 
Crawling  across  the  desert  with  its  load. 
I  hear  no  toot,  nor  panting  steam  refrain. 
At  dawn,  it  bears  the  mail  away  each  day, 
When   the   wind   blows   up    the    canon   in   the 
morning. 

After  the  train  has  gone,  the  desert  sleeps. 
Even  the  skinner's  dust  cloud  is  no  more, 
For  swallowed  in  the  canon,  up  it  creeps. 
Sand  cedars  frame  the  red-roofed  town  in  green, 
When   the   wind   blows   up    the    canon   in   the 
morning. 

Then  far  below  my  shack,  perched  high  above 
The  canon  road,  the  long,  slow  team  drags  up 
The  steep  and  rocky  road,  nor  seems  to  move. 
The  skinner's  blacksnake  cracks  like  pistol  shot, 
While  the  canon  wind  is  still  at  sleepy  noontime. 


122      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

In  that  silence  the  wagon's  creaks  and  groans, 
Mingled  with  curses  flung  at  straining  mules, 
Come  up  to  me,  for  words,  and,  even,  tones 
Are  heard  a  half  mile  in  those  quiet  hills, 
When  the  canon  wind  is  still  at  sleepy  noontime. 

On  the  desert's  edge,  beyond  the  town,  inclines 
A  long,  steep,  gray-green  mountain  topped  with 

snow, 

While  at  its  timber  line,  huge,  straggling  pines 
Are  stippled  black  against  the  lower  snows 
When  the  canon  wind  awakes  in  afternoontime. 

Black  swarms  of  ducks  fly  quacking  to  their  rest 
Beside  the  big,  dark,  brooding  soda  lake. 
A  band  of  yellow  light  dies  in  the  west. 
Against  it,  snowy  peaks  show  purple-gray, 
When  the  wind  blows  down  the  canon  in  the 
evening. 

The  desert's  one  gray  blur.     A  darker  blur 
Upon  it  is  the  town.     Its  lights  shine  out. 
Then  nearer,  jagged  canon  walls  show  dark 
Against  the  quickly  paling  sky  of  dusk, 
When  the  wind  blows  down  the  canon  in  the  star 
light. 


I  know  the  train  is  in.     I  see  its  light 
Moving  along  the  now  black  desert  floor, 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       123 

While  on  beyond,  towers  that  mighty  wall. 
'Tis   purple   dark   from   foot   to   snow-capped 

peaks. 

Grim,  silent  hills  about  me  loom  up  black. 
The  stars  break  forth  in  frosty  scintillance, 
So  close  they  seem  suspended  just  above 
The  higher  buttes  behind  me  to  the  east. 
The  air's  so  still  upon  the  higher  hills 
It  seems  to  be  alive,  with  held-in  breath. 
And  then  a  coyote  howls  and  yaps,  and  then 
The  wind  roars  down  the  canon  for  'tis  nightfall. 


124      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 


A  DESERT  NIGHT 

It  is  evening  in  the  desert 

And  the  blazing  day  is  dead. 

It  is  evening  in  the  desert. 

Though  the  flaming  sun  has  sped, 

He  leaves  some  flickering  embers 

From  his  fires  that  burned  so  bright, 

And  shadows  steal  o'er  the  desert  floor 

To  herald  the  coming  night. 

The  Will-o'-the-Wisp  is  dancing, 

But  the  sunset  hides  his  light. 

It  is  dusky  in  the  desert, 

In  the  west  is  a  yellow  glow. 

It  is  dusky  in  the  desert 

When  the  winds  begin  to  blow. 

Mountain  peaks  cut  the  purple  sky 

In  a  black  and  jagged  heap, 

When  a  sigh  breathes  out  of  the  stillness 

That  wakes  its  brooding  deep. 

Then  the  soft  wind  sways  the  sage-brush 

And  the  sand  stirs  in  its  sleep. 

Darkness  broods  in  the  desert, 
The  sand  gleams  dimly  gray. 
Darkness  broods  in  the  desert, 
Under  the  stars'  cold  ray. 
Then  I  feel  like  a  lonely  waif  afloat 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       125 

On  an  ocean  without  a  tide. 

Then  thoughts  troop,  weird  and  ghostly, 

That  the  bright  day  has  defied, 

And  my  soul  walks  alone  in  the  silence, 

For  even  the  wind  has  died. 

The  moon  is  lighting  the  desert 

From  over  the  mountains'  rim. 

The  moon  is  lighting  the  desert 

With  a  light  that  is  silver-dim, 

And  the  sand  is  a  sea  of  silver 

That  fades  mysteriously 

Into  the  luminous  moon-mist 

Beyond  which  the  shadows  lie. 

Then  my  spirit  dreams  in  the  moonlight, 

For  the  darkness  has  gone  from  me. 


126      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 


THIRST 

Below  those  snowy  peaks  that  hem  my  gaze 
I  know  full  well  cool  rivulets  course  down 
To  moisten  thirsty  valleys  far  below, 
Where   cattle   graze   knee-deep   in   rich,   sweet 

grass. 
Though  they  loom   close,   viewed   through  my 

burning  eyes, 

Thirst  and  starvation  lie  'twixt  them  and  me. 
The  sand  is  hot  and  deep. 

And,  on  the  other  hand,  rise  bare  rock  walls. 
No  snow  is  there,  but  grim,  dead  loneliness 
Where  man  must  pack  the  food  and  drink  he 

needs. 

The  dwelling-place  of  buzzard  and  coyote. 
And  all  the  deadly  creatures  of  the  wild 
Lurk  in  those  gloomy  canons. 
Here,  at  my  feet,  a  horse's  skeleton, 
Embedded  in  the  sand  for  many  years, 
Tells  how  my  pony  and  myself  may  fare. 
There,  where  the  desert  meets  the  sky  ahead, 
The  vista  is  a  glare  of  glowing  brass 
Misted  across  with  heat. 

No  water's  nearer  than  those  icy  peaks. 
There  is  no  shade  within  a  hundred  miles, 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       127 

Nor  any  growing  thing  to  feed  upon. 
My  belt  is  tightened  to  its  final  hole, 
The  water  in  my  canteen  is  all  gone, 
My  little  horse  is  lame. 


I  know  a  shady,  woodland  road  back  home, 
Flanked  on  one  side  by  swiftly  flowing  water; 
The  other  side,  a  tree-grown  mountain  slope. 
Beside  the  road,  beneath  that  leafy  slope 
Roofed  with  young  saplings   casting  grateful 

shade, 
A  big,  deep  spring  wells,  dark  and  cold  and 

pure, 

That  used  to  bead  my  cup  with  icy  sweat  — 
But  "  That  way  madness  lies." 


128      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 


THE  PAINT-BOX 

There's  the  blinding  white  of  the  alkali, 

There's  the  cindery  black  of  the  malapai. 

The  great  gray  Sierra  wall  behind 

The  round  brown  hills  that  are  sharp  defined. 

There  are  hills  of  purple,  hills  of  blue, 

Hills  of  a  brilliant  copper  hue. 

There's  the  slaty  brown  clay  merged  with  red, 

Crisscrossed  with  cracks  of  the  old  lake  bed. 

There's  the  dazzling  yellow  of  the  sands 

With  a  gray-green  splash  where  the  sage-brush 

stands. 

The  sparkling  turquoise  of  the  lake 
Where  even  a  duck  no  drink  dare  take. 
A  flash  of  all  colors  here  and  there, 
For  lizards  are  any  and  everywhere. 
A  flame  of  red  at  the  touch  of  dawn, 
A  flame  of  yellow  when  day  has  gone, 
And  ever  the  pitiless  blue  sky. 

Then  God  shuts  the  lid  of  His  paint-box  tight, 
His  colors  all  buried  in  blue-black  night, 
While  through  holes   in  the   cover  the   stars' 

bright  glance 
Lends  to  the  darkness  a  dim  romance. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       129 


HANGMAN'S  TREE 

Where  water  will  not  run  nor  flower  bloom 

Man  may  not  live  but  for  a  single  day. 

Such  land  holds  earth's  purse  she  gives  but  to 

those 
Who  dare  her  wildest  moods. 

A  mountain  saddle  lies  between  two  peaks, 
While  just  beyond  that  saddle  is  a  flat, 
And  on  that  flat  and  on  the  slopes  nearby 
There  dwell  five  thousand  men. 

On  one  side,  sloping  to  the  desert  floor 
Through   canons   deep,   there   winds    a   rough, 

steep  road; 

While  on  the  other,  rocky  ridge  on  ridge 
Billows  away  to  the  East. 

In  that  rough  town  thrive  twenty-five  saloons, 
Red-shirted  miners  bringing  them  their  trade. 
For  the  fierce,  fevered  life  and  that  keen  air 
Beget  a  raging  thirst. 

Across  the  hot  road  a  big  spider  crawls 
Whose  sting  will  run  swift  poison  through  the 

veins. 

The  scorpion  seeks  the  dampest  spot  he  knows. 
The  busy  town  is  still 


130      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

For  it  is  day.     The  gophers  in  their  holes 
Are  not  more  busy  than  those  red-clad  men 
Delving  and  sweating  in  earth's  mighty  breast, 
Fighting  to  reach  her  heart. 

At  night  the  stars  that  seem  to  touch  those 

peaks 

Above  that  saddle,  look  on  different  scenes, 
For  lights  blaze  out  from  twenty-five  wide  doors 
Toward  which  the  whole  town  flocks. 

A  babel  of  mixed  sounds  floats  on  the  night, 
Of  faro,  poker,  pedro,  and  the  dance, 
The  fiddles'  scrape,  the  shuffling  of  feet, — 
All  fused  in  one  loud  din. 

And  then  a  shot,  and  then  a  sudden  hush, 
Then  angry  voices  raised  in  strident  speech, 
And  women's  screams  and  men's  deep,  cursing 

tones, 
And  then  a  crowd  pours  out. 

Bedraggled  women  and  big,  drunken  men 
And  cripples,  dogs,  and  children  but  a  few, 
All  headed  for  that  big  pine  on  the  slope 
From  which  a  rope  hangs  down. 

In  that  crowd's  center  walks  a  scowling  one. 
His  hat  is  off,  his  hair  disordered,  wild. 
His  hands  are  tied  behind  him,  and  his  look 
Is  sullen,  scowling,  black. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      131 

He  curses  them  while  they  secure  the  noose, 
He  curses  them  with  his  last  choking  breath. 
And  then  a  fusillade  of  shots,  and  then  — 
Deep  silence  over  all. 


A  roaring  wind  one  furious,  wild  night 
Fanned  into  flame  a  little  vagrant  spark. 
Five  thousand  souls  were  homeless,  and  the  hills 
Were  as  they  e'er  had  been. 

A  canon  dark  where  sun  shines  but  at  noon, 
A  big,  old  pine  upon  its  nearer  slope. 
Nature  has  guarded  what  grew  by  its  will  — 
Even  the  rope  has  gone. 

A  saddle  in  the  hills  where  coyotes  lurk, 
An  old  slag  pile,  but  not  a  soul  in  sight. 
No  miners'  shack  to  humanize  the  scene. 
The  desert  has  come  back. 


TALKING  WATER  AND  WHISPER 
ING  WIND 


RUNNING  WATER 

I  remember  the  rich  clad  hills  so  softly  curved 

and  green, 
And  the  lovely,  sleepy  valley  with  a  white  house 

here  and  there, 
And  I  mind  how  the  clean  gray  beeches  hung 

over  the  ravine 
With  its  rippling,  singing  rivulet  that  flowed  so 

crystal  clear. 

A  covered  bridge  bestrode  the  creek,  its  tunnel 
of  deep  shade 

A  breath  of  coolness  when  the  sun  was  beating 
upon  the  road. 

On  its  rattling  planks,  the  hollow  rhythm  my 
horse's  hoof-beats  made 

Was  music,  but  more  was  the  liquid  roar  as  be 
neath  me  the  water  flowed. 

There  was  another,  a  broader,  stream  where 
the  road  ran  through  a  ford, 

Where  the  water  tinkled  gently  in  its  pebbly, 
sandy  bed. 

With  a  cool  brocade  of  sun  and  shade  its  shal 
low  bed  is  floored, 

135 


136       THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

While  I  hear  the  liquid  slish  and  plunge  of 
my  horse's  splashing  tread. 

Beside  that  road  was  a  welling  spring,  deep  and 
dark  and  cool. 

Bright  cresses  edged  the  tiny  stream  that  over 
flowed  its  cool,  green  lip. 

I  hear  the  plash  of  the  startled  frog  as  he  dives 
into  its  pool, 

And  the  spring's  soft,  liquid  gurgle  and  its 
soothing  drip,  drip,  drip. 

When  the  parched  and  blazing  desert  speaks  to 

me  in  fevered  strain, 
Dreams  of  shade  and  dewy  moisture  for  that 

fevered  voice  atones. 
Then  the  organ  notes  of  ocean  surges  beat  upon 

my  brain 
And  the  lilt  of  running  water  as  it  purrs  among 

the  stones. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       137 

THE  RECKLESS  DESERT  WIND 

The  sand  is  deep  and  the  sage  grows  high, 
No  water  there  is  in  sight. 
The  only  rock  is  black  malapai, 
Dead  mountains  to  left  and  right. 

The  single  sign  of  man's  habitance 
Is  an  empty  whiskey  jug. 
The  only  insect  my  eye  can  see 
Is  a  toiling  doodle-bug. 

Now  blow,  you  wind,  o'er  the  desert  wild, 
Blow  out  all  thoughts  of  men, 
And  sweep  by  me  with  a  clean,  dry  rush, 
Till  I  feel  like  a  boy  again. 

I  shout  wild  things  with  no  ear  to  hear, 
While  the  wind  spins  the  sands  upcurled, 
As  I  gallop  fast  toward  their  yellow  rim, 
For  I'm  at  the  end  of  the  world. 

There's  never  a  thought  can  make  me  pause, 
Nor  a  sight  that  my  eyes  light  on, 
Though  I  see  in  the  sand  the  dry,  white  bones 
Of  a  human  skeleton. 

Then  I'll  laugh  today  though  there's  hell  to  pay 
When  this  reckless  mood  is  past. 
For  the  wind's  deep  hum  is  telling  me, 
"  The  desert's  got  you  at  last." 


138      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 


A  MESSAGE 

I  start  with  a  little  drip,  drip,  drip, 
On  slopes  of  eternal  snow, 
Then  I  grow  to  a  flowing  rivulet, 
When  I  dash  through  the  gorge  below. 

My  ice  cold  veins  are  the  runnels 
That  flow  under  frozen  crust, 
And  the  icy  springs  from  lower  slopes 
That  feed  my  hurrying  lust. 

I  jump,  I  shout,  and  I  foam,  and  dance 
Like  a  wild,  mad  thing  at  play, 
But  I  cannot  linger,  for  swelling  veins 
Are  speeding  me  on  my  way. 

Through  gulches  dark,  over  jagged  rocks 
I  follow  my  destiny, 
And  I  roar  to  the  pines  as  I  flash  by, 
And  they  whisper  back  to  me, 

"  Take  some  of  our  peace  to  your  desert, 
And  take  it  a  memory  green; 
Take  some  of  our  shade  to  your  desert 
Along  with  your  cold  canteen." 

I  jostle  the  rocks  as  I  growl  along 
And  I  spray  the  miner's  shack, 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       139 

As  I  bear  on  my  black  and  rippling  flood 
The  forest's  broken  wrack. 

I  am  kissed  by  the  sun  and  tossed  by  the  wind, 
I  am  robbed  by  human  things, 
But  ever  I  con  in  my  memory 
The  song  that  the  big  pine  sings, 

For  I'm  bound  for  the  yellow  desert 
So  bright  and  barren,  so  wild  and  bare, 
And  my  pace  is  slowed  to  a  sluggish  glide 
Ere  I  sink  my  cool  flood  there. 

Oh,  I'm  gentle  in  the  desert, 
Just  before  my  race  is  run, 
As  I  liquidly  lap  my  message 
To  the  ear  of  the  thirsty  one. 

Drink  it  down  with  me,  O  Desert  Man, 
'Twill  make  my  life  blood  sweet. 
Drink  it  down  with  me,  that  message, 
'Twill  make  your  drink  complete. 

"  I  bring  still  peace  to  your  desert, 
I  bring  it  a  memory  green, 
I  bring  you  the  vision  of  cool,  pine  shade, 
And  I  bring  you  a  cold  canteen." 


140      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 


THE  WOOING  WIND 

She  stands  sturdy  and  strong  through  all  his 

wooing, 
Though  her  plumes  are  slender,  her  branches 

slim. 

Never  hiding,  though  storms  are  brewing, 
When  he  wrenches  in  rage  to  her  undoing, 
After  speeding  to  her  from  the  desert's   rim. 
The  wind  is  wooing  the  Desert  Belle 

The   walls   of   their  house   are   the   mountains 

high, 

And  the  desert  floor  their  bed, 
The  blue  of  heaven  their  canopy. 
And  he  woos  her,  with  many  a  gentle  sigh, 
At  dawn,  when  the  sun  shows  red. 
The  wind  is  wooing  the  Desert  Belle 

He  never  need  call,  for  he's  ever  nigh. 

He  heaps  up  the  sand  about  her  feet 

To  keep  them  warm  when  he's  roaring  by, 

For  his  is  not  always  a  gentle  sigh, 

His  caresses  not  always  sweet. 

The  wind  is  wooing  the  Desert  Belle 

His  fingers  he  twines  in  her  feathery  hair, 

He  dances  about  to  catch  her  eye, 

He  hums  in  glee  when  she  speaks  him  fair  — 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       141 

So  seldom  she  does  that  he  might  despair, 
Her  sage-plumed  head  she  rears  so  high, 
Were  it  not  that  he  holds  her  rooted  there. 
The  wind  is  wooing  the  Desert  Belle 

He  wafts  to  her  kisses  when  days  are  still, 
He  murmurs  low  to  her  in  the  night. 
He  has  builded  about  her  a  little  hill, 
Scooping  the  desert  sands  until 
He  has  raised  her  to  greater  height. 
The  wind  is  wooing  the  Desert  Belle 

Oh,  he  is  a  patient,  persistent  wooer  — 
For  thousands   of  years  he's   sighed  — , 
But  though  he  is  wealthy  and  she  is  poor, 
Though  he's  tied  her  fast  and  has  her  sure, 
She  will  never  be  his  bride. 
The  wind  is  wooing  the  Desert  Belle 

For  she  looks   at  his   soft   approach  askance, 
And  she  smiles  at  his  ceaseless  murmuring. 
Though  she  never  refuses  to  join  his  dance, 
Yet  she  sways  away  with  her  gray-green  glance, 
For  she  is  a  sage  old  thing. 
The  wind  is  wooing  the  Desert 


142      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 


THE  WIND  IN  THE  SAGE 

'Tis  the  breath  of  dawn,  then  early  morn,  and 
still  — 

As  still  as  death, 
With  the  desert  gray  as  a  form  of  clay  until 

It  draws  its  breath, 
When  so  faint  a  sigh  sweeps  the  alkali 

'Twould   scarce   flutter   a   fairy   page. 
The  Desert  Wind  is  whispering  to  the  Sage. 

Through  a  canon  cleft  in  the  desert  wall,  shoots 

One  long  shaft  of  sun. 
Drawn  away  the  cloak  of  gray.     That  shaft 

salutes 

The  desert  day,  begun. 
Now  sharp  the  line  of  steep  incline  that  in  the 

dawn 

The  eye  could  not  engage. 
The  Desert  Wind  is  whispering  to  the  Sage 

The  dazzling  white  of  the  alkali,  like  snow, 

Makes  blue  spots  dance 
Before  my  eyes,  and  the  sands  are  aglow 

With  the  risen  sun's  advance, 
Thin  spirals  of  sand  are  swirling,  blowing, 

Whirling  in  a  rage. 
The  Desert  Wind  is  whispering  to  the  Sage 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       143 

The  air  is  hot  and  still,  the  lizards  sleep, 

The  sand's  a  yellow  glare. 
Even  the  coyote  ventures  not  to  creep 

From  his  dark,  rocky  lair. 
There  is  no  shade  in  all  that  desert  waste 

Save  in  its  mountain  vassalage. 
The  Desert  Wind  is  whispering  to  the  Sage 

Then  fall  black  shadows  on  the  desert  floor 

Like  giant  pools  of  ink, 
That  lengthen  ever  as  the  sun  sinks  lower 

Beyond  the  mountains'  brink, 
Until  the  valley  floor  is  filled  with  shade, 

And  then  'tis  evening  dusk. 
The  Desert  Wind  is  whispering  to  the  Sage 

The  grim  walls  rise  on  either  hand  huge,  shad 
owy  blurs 

Against  a  purple  sky. 
The  yellow  dies  out  in  the  west  and  then  there 

purrs 

Across  the  waste,  a  sigh. 
Then  ghostly  desert  voices  breathe  as  they  have 

done 

Through  all  creation's  age. 
The  Desert  Wind  is  whispering  to  the  Sage 


144      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 


The  Will-o'-the-Wisp  is  a  nuisance. 

He's  always  about  at  night, 

He  hasn't  a  sense  of  honor, — 

He's  just  a  malicious  sprite. 

When  he  saw  what  the  wind  was  doing 

He  danced  with  insane  delight, 

Then  lurked  'neath  a  sand-dune  to  watch  the 

wooing, 

After  hiding  his  lurid  light. 
And  when  the  night  wind  faintly  stirred 
This  is  what  he  heard 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       145 


WHAT  THE  WIND  WHISPERED 

Over  blazing  sands  I  have  sped  to  you 

From  my  home  on  the  world's  edge  dim. 

I  have  sailed  down  swiftly  from  out  the  blue, 

I  have  swooped  from  the  mountains'  rim. 

I  have  lurked  behind  dunes  like  a  lean  coyote 
To  play  with  you  hide-and-seek. 
I've  watched  you  as  high  in  the  sky  I  float 
Or  swirled  in  the  desert  reek. 

When  the  spirit  expands  in  the  budding  night 
I  bring  you,  at  dusk,  my  softest  sigh, 
For  the  sun  has  gone,  the  desert's  brooding, 
And  there's  only  you  and  I. 

Then  I  sink  to  rest  by  your  slender  side, 
As  the  whisper  of  dusk  I  bring 
To  the  sand  and  the  sky.     There  is  naught  be 
side, 
For  the  desert  is  slumbering. 

Have  you  heard  what  I've  whispered  to  you 

through  the  years 
And  couldn't  you  ever  guess? 
Bend  low,  O  Sage,  and  incline  your  ears 
In  our  desert  loneliness 


146      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

And  I'll  breathe  it  to  you  on  the  twilight  air 
With  my  shyest,  light  caress, 
"  I  love  to  blow  through  your  feathery  hair 
And  to  play  with  your  gray-green  dress." 


DESERT  SPECIMENS 


I'M  GOING  TO  THAT  COUNTRY 
OVER  THERE 

O  the  gold  I've  found  and  squandered 

In  the  many  lands  I've  wandered 

Is  enough  to  make  of  me  a  millionaire. 

But  I've  had  my  fun  and  spent  it, 

And  I  never  will  repent  it. 

Now  I'm  going  to  That  Country  Over  There. 

Oh,  of  pictures  I've  a  brainful. 

Some  are  glad  and  some  are  painful, 

Some  are  funny,  some  enough  to  raise  the  hair. 

Now  I'll  paint  some  brand-new  pages, 

For  I'm  going  where  the  sage  is 

In  that  glowing,  torrid  Country  Over  There. 

There  I'll  start  out  with  my  burro. 

Ne'er  a  plant  and  ne'er  a  furrow 

Will  greet  me,  for  there  are  no  ranches  there. 

Only  prospectors  and  freighters 

And  a  few  old  second-raters, 

Who  swap  stories  in  That  Country  Over  There. 

But  I'll  leave  those  Rats  behind  me 
Where  they'll  never,   never  find  me, 
149 


150      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

For  I  know  a  canon  wild  and  deep  and  fair. 
Fair,  because  the  sun's  not  broiled  it, 
Fair,  because  man  has  not  spoiled  it, 
Though   it's    in   that   burning   Country   Over 
There. 

There  I'll  find  the  rich  gold,  pronto, 

And  I'll  prospect  where  I  want  to, 

And  I'll  eat  and  sleep  out  in  the  desert  air. 

And  I'll  make  to  no  man  payment, 

For  I'll  be  the  only  claimant 

In  that  free,  wild  desert  Country  Over  There. 

No  use  is  there  for  doctor's  pill, 

A  man  keeps  well  if  heat  don't  kill. 

He  gets  what  he  likes,  if  he  likes  country  bare. 

The  nights  are  chill  and  deadly  still, 

But  a  man  can  smoke  and  think  his  fill 

In  that  quiet,  restful  Country  Over  There. 

The  sun  will  rise  in  purple  skies 

And  glitter  all  day  in  burning  eyes, 

There's  never  a  thing  will  shade  its  burning 

glare. 

Never  that  thought  my  plan  debarred, 
I  and  my  jacks  are  iron  hard. 
We'll  live  and  thrive  in  That  Country  Over 

There. 

Then,  Ah  Sing,  hurry  up  the  mush, 
I  and  my  jacks  will  hit  the  brush 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       151 

When  the  dawning  lights  above  the  canon  flare. 

Say  adios  to  all  the  men, 

For  if  I  don't  show  up  again 

I've  hit  That  Farther  Country  Over  There. 


152      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 


THE  BARK  OF  THE  COYOTE 

I  can  live  without  food  and  drink  for  days, 
I  can  feed  where  you  would  hunger  and  die, 
I  can  run  like  the  wind  and  beat  your  bronc, 
For  the  desert  shade  am  I. 

Just  out  of  your  sight  I  love  to  chatter 
When  the  stars  shine  out  and  you've  gone  to 

bed, 

For  I  want  you  to  know  that  I  hover  near, 
Watching  you  work  and  —  waiting. 

This  desert  is  mine  and  I  lived  in  it 
Before  you  ever  were  born  to  the  world. 
Before  you  ever  could  know  it  was  here, 
My  race  had  prowled  it  alone. 

My  home  is  the  peak  and  the  sliding  shale 
And  the  cavern  dark  where  I  house  my  young, 
And  the  canon  bed  where  is  deepest  shade, 
And  the  whole  wide  desert  world. 

I  have  seen  you  come,  I  have  seen  you  go, 
I  have  picked  my  meal  from  your  dead  men's 

bones. 

I  was  here  before  you,  and  when  you  left 
I  topped  your  ruins  and  laughed. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       153 

For  I  love  the  rocks  and  the  burning  sands, 
And  I  hate  you  with  a  burning  hate. 
I  fear  you  living,  I  laugh  at  you  dead, 
But  I  will  outlive  you  here. 

And  the  keenest  joy  that  I  know  about 
Is  to  watch  you  leaving  with  dragging  steps 
From  your  ruined  labors,  where  I  am  crouched, 
And  yap  at  your  sure  defeat. 


154      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 


DESERT  CHILDREN 

Their  shirts  are  of  blue  denim, 
Their  chaps  are  long  and  wide, 
And  shiny,  battered  gun  butts  peep 
From  the  pockets  at  their  side. 
Their  hats  are  high-crowned,  pointed, 
And  their  spurs,  magnificent. 
Their  movements  are  disjointed, 
And  their  talk,  profanely  eloquent. 

For  they  are  trying  mightily  — 
One  small  boy  and  his  pal  — 
To  rope  the  desert  broncos 
In  the  livery  corral. 

Those  broncos  might  be  tamely  caught 

At  any  time  of  day, 

But  they  prefer  to  rope  them 

In  the  good  old  cowboy  way, 

For  the  sandy  desert  road  runs  close 

Where  cowboy  once  chased  Indian. 

Though  there's  no  brush,  they  need  those  chaps, 

And  they  rope  their  broncs  "  like  Daddy  done." 

For  of  all  the  aspirations 
That  breed  in  the  desert  sun, 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      153 

Theirs  is  the  desert  yearning 
To  be  a  son  of  a  gun. 

He  wears  no  Indian  breech-clout, 

Nor  leggins,  buckskin-fringed, 

But  blue  and  greasy  overalls, 

And  his  face  is  copper-tinged. 

He  crouches  behind  a  big  sand-dune, 

For  he  is  the  chief  of  a  raiding  band. 

His  squaw  mother's  greasy  skinning  knife 

Is  clutched  in  his  small  brown  hand. 

For  he  sees  his  paleface  enemies 

Preparing  to  mount  and  ride, 

So  he  will  ambush  and  scalp  them,  both, 

At  the  bend  in  the  Divide. 

Beside  him  his  cayuse  crouches, 

With  his  long  and  ragged  coat. 

What  though  the  paleface  calls  him 

"  Half  collie  and  half  coyote  "? 

He  will  mount  and  ride  in  a  minute 

And  the  wind  will  race  with  his  flying  feet. 

His  little  fat  body's  as  still  as  a  cat's, 

As  he  visions  his  enemy's  rout  complete. 

For  he  is  a  mighty  warrior, 
As  he  crouches  in  the  sand, 
Leading  his  tribe  to  victory  — 
Lord  of  that  desert  land. 


156      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

These  are  the  men  of  tomorrow, 
That  ever  look  back  in  their  play, 
Touching  with  glamour  heroic 
The  story  of  yesterday. 


GOBS  AND  HOBGOBS 


THE  INDIAN  AND  THE  PRINCESS 

He  sleeps,  that  feathered  warrior. 
His  head  forms  a  mountain  crest, 
The  last  stern,  Indian  barrier 
Between  the  East  and  the  West. 

Above  his  mighty,  war-plumed  head 
The  Sleeping  Beauty  lies. 
Only  the  cloud  caps  kiss  her  brow, 
Only  the  sun,  her  eyes. 

Only  the  eagle  swoops  above 
Their  silent,  massive  heads. 
The  only  fires  that  warm  them 
Are  the  sunsets'  flaming  reds. 

When  the  gods  were  young  he  stole  her 
From  a  distant,  fair-haired  race, 
And  they  camped  for  the  night  on  the  shoulder 
Of  that  lofty  mountain  place. 

Then  he  slept  at  her  feet  in  the  sunset, 
His  stern,  set  face  to  the  skies, 
And  he  was  a  mighty  medicine  man 
So  he  sealed  with  sleep  her  eyes. 
159 


160      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

No  fairy  prince  will  awaken 
With  a  kiss  that  sleeping  one. 
That  Chief  no  Manitou  will  beckon, 
For  the  days  of  the  gods  are  done. 

So  eagles  float  and  scream  and  wheel 
Above  his  cold,  proud  head. 
No  more  to  Manitou  he'll  kneel, 
For  the  Indian  Chief  is  dead. 

And  his  captive  sleeps  forever, 
A  deep  and  dreamless  sleep, 
Since  he  is  dead  who  could  sever 
The  charm  of  her  slumber  deep. 

Now  the  Indian  fairy  dances 

On  the  brow  of  his  stern,  still  head, 

For  lightsome  spirit  fancies 

May  live  when  the  body's  dead. 

Now  the  stars  bend  from  above  her 
To  shine  on  her  shaded  eyes. 
And  though  she  will  sleep  forever, 
From  her  brow  sweet  thoughts  arise. 

A  cool  wind  blows  o'er  the  desert 
From  her  lofty  mountain  peak, 
And  though  she  is  deeply  sleeping, 
I  dream  that  I  hear  her  speak. 


THE  LAXD  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       161 

"  You  fashion  me  as  a  woman 
From  snow  and  rocks  and  clods, 
For  the  mind  that  weaves  the  fairies 
Is  the  mind  that  makes  the  gods. 

"  Yet  all  the  gods  of  Olympus 
Are  not  so  great  as  I, 
For  I'll  still  sleep  on  my  mountain 
When  all  the  gods  shall  die. 

"  For  my  rock-ribbed  mountain  reaches 
Far  down  into  the  earth, 
And  never  will  be  riven 
Until  a  new  world's  birth, 

"  You  see  me,  as  all  humans  do, 
As  clothed  in  human  guise, 
But  never  will  you  see  me  true 
Until  with  clearer  eyes." 

•  •••••• 

I  rubbed  my  eyes  and  there  uprose 
A  mighty  mountain,  grim  and  torn, 
That  had  pierced  dawning  skies  of  rose 
Since  first  creation's  morn, 

And  long  before  that  later  morn, 
When  were  created  gods  and  men. 
Since  race  of  man  had  not  been  born, 
Of  course,  there  were  no  fairies  then. 


162      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

I  sighed.     But  in  the  sunset  glow 
Just  as  I  turned  to  leave, 
A  fairy  jigged  on  the  Chieftain's  brow, 
And  I  saw  her  bosom  heave. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       163 


MOUNTAIN  MUSIC 

It  is  not  the  song  of  the  mountain-lark 

With  his  plaintive  cheep  and  call, 
It  is  not  the  whir  of  a  humming-bird 

As  he  bores  to  the  heart  of  a  flower, 
It  is  not  the  hum  of  a  desert  insect 

Lodged  in  the  canon  wall, 
But  the  tinkling  ring  of  fairy  bells 

As  they  sound  the  still  noon  hour. 

They  ring  at  noon  when  the  sun's  ablaze 

And  the  canon  winds  are  still, 
When  the  hawk  is  drowsing  on  his  eyrie, 

And  the  coyote's  hidden  deep, 
When  the  shimmering  heat  in  waves  floats  up 

From  sage  and  rocky  hill, 
When  the  midday  hush  is  on  the  world, 

And  the  mountains  are  asleep. 

The  desert  fairy  folds  his  wings 

When  the  Southern  Cross  appears, 
And  goes  to  bed  like  an  Indian 

When  night  her  curtain  fells. 
But  through  the  livelong  desert  day 

There's  a-ringing  in  my  ears 
Of  husky  elfin  voices  and  the  chime 

Of  crystal  bells. 


164      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

The  tiniest  cactus  needle-points  form  barbs 

For  their  long  bow  shafts. 
Their  arrows  rest  in  a  quiver  made  from 

A  little  flower  pod. 
Their  war-bonnet  feathers  are  fashioned  from 

The  fluff  that  the  light  air  wafts. 
With  moccasins  made  from  the  skins  of  seeds 

Their  dusky  feet  are  shod. 

O  search  for  them  not  in  the  moonlight 

Nor  in  folds  of  the  hills  at  night, 
For  they  are  not  like  the  fairies 

That  glamoured  our  childhood  days. 
The  desert  elves  sport  only  in  the 

Broad  and  blazing  light, 
Then  kindle  their  camp-fires  in  the  dusk, 

And  sleep  with  the  sun's  last  rays. 

And  so  if  you  take  the  mountain  trails 

That  up  from  the  desert  run, 
And  your  horse,  looking  down  the  canon, 

Snorts  and  halts  and  pricks  his  ears 
And  gazes  with  starting  eyeballs  where 

There  is   naught  but  desert   sun, 
You  may  know  that  the  mountain  fairies'  song 

Is  the  ringing  sound  he  hears. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       165 


NIMROD 

Bright  is  the  vision,  though  rarest, 
When  my  dreaming  eyes  are  blest 
With  a  sight  of  the  Indian  fairies 
Who  dwell  in  the  hiUs  of  the  West. 
But  few  are  the  fortunate  humans 
To  be  their  invisible  guest. 

Yet  once,  as  I  followed  a  desert  trail 

Up  into  a  canon  wild, 

From  my  eyes  fell  the  grown  up  scales 

And  I  was  as  a  little  child 

Who  lives  in  a  visionary  world, 

By  fairy  dreams  beguiled. 

My  mind  for  one  sweet  half-hour 

Was  free  from  all  human  woes. 

No  mortal  care  had  power, 

No  thoughts  of  duty  rose. 

Elfin  joy  was  my  dower 

In  that  land  where  the  sage-brush  grows. 

I  swung  along  up  the  canon  bare 
Through  a  realm  that  we  all  must  leave, 
And  I  found  no  portal,  no  sentry   there, 
No  warder,  in  helm  and  greave, 
For  it  is  freer  than  realms  less  fair  — 
That  Kingdom  of  Make-Believe. 


166      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

My   eyes   lost  their  human  glances, 
And  a  bright,  new  world  upreared, 
Bathed  in  soft  amber  lances 
Of  a  sun  that  was  dreamy,  weird. 
Then,  trooping,  came  elfin  fancies 
And  the  fairy  folk  appeared. 

At  my  feet  knelt  a  dusky  fairy 
Who  a  shaft  on  his  bowstring  held ; 
In  his  ant  hill  shelter,  lurking,  wary, 
A  strange  air  beast  beheld. 
He  did  not  heed  my  coming 
For  I  had  been  fairy-belled. 

His  bow  was  a  needle  of  pinon  pine 

With  a  woven  web  for  string. 

His  scalp  feathers,  iridescent,  fine, 

Were  plucked  from  a  humming-bird's  wing. 

A  breech-clout,  woven  of  spider's  twine, 

Was  his  only  covering. 

When  his  bowstring  sped  the  tiny  shaft 
I  could  hear  its  humming  twang  — 
Then  down  the  road,  a  skinner  laughed 
And  his  curling  blacksnake  sang. 
Vanished  my  hunter  at  human  sound, 
Though  a  bell-like  shout  still  rang. 

Then  back  came  the  sunlight  swiftly, 
Hot,  white,  and  glittering. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      167 

Still  I  heard  at  my  feet,  though  faintly, 
A  war  song,  triumphing. 
And  down  at  my  feet  a  tarantula-hawk 
Thrashed  about  with  a  broken  wing. 


168      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 


DESERT  WITCHCRAFT 

I  don't  say  that  I'm  locoed  —  an'  I  don't  claim 

that  I  ain't  — 
Fer  a-sayin'  I'll  stick  ter  the  desert  till  I  climb 

the  Golden  Stairs. 
But  the  way  they  hugged  the  house  at  home 

jist  makes  a  feller  faint, 
An'  the  feel  of  a  good  horse  under  me  is  bet- 

ter'n  rockin'  chairs. 

I  hiked  the  hills  like  all  possessed  when  I  first 

come  from  back  home. 
Ole  timers  called  me  nutty,  but  I  didn't  mind 

their  jeers, 
Fer  I  was  keen  fer  the  ring  o'  gold  an'  the  city's 

noisy  hum. 
Now  the  mountain  fairies'  music  is  a-ringin'  in 

my  ears. 

So  I've  kind  o'  lost  all  love  o'  gold  but  the  fun 

o*  huntin'  it. 

An'  when  I  git  home  letters  written  implorin'ly 
Fer  me  ter  come  home,  I  tell  'em  I  ain't  struck 

it  yit, 
But   it's    the  desert  Will-o'-the-Wisp  that   is 

a-keepin'  me. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       169 

I  don't  know  much  'bout  heaven,  but  I  reckon  ef 

I  goes, 
I'll  want  a  tol'able  big  corral  an'  a  man's  size 

sleepin'  cage. 
An'  I'll  tell  the  tally  man  at  the  gate  he  c'n 

have  my  eyes  an'  nose 
Ef  he's  goin'  ter  rope  an'  tie  me  out  o'  sight  an* 

smell  o'  sage. 

They're  sleepin'  soft  in  the  good  ole  home  an' 

a-wishin'  fer  me  there, 
An'  I  hone  ter  see  fruit  blossoms  in  May  an* 

ter  hear  the  crunch  o'  snow, 
An'  I  want  ter  smell  the  Atlantic  an'  breathe  its 

salty  air, 
But  the  wind  o'   the  desert  has   wrapped   me 

round  an'  won't  never  let  me  go. 


170       THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 


WILL-O'-THE-WISP 

I  know  that  across  those  mountains 
Lies   a  country  about  like  this, 
And  I  know  that  poisoned  fountains 
Fringe  the  way,  and  the  rattlers'  hiss 
Is   sibilant  on  that  blistering  trail, 

And  the  sand  is  like  the  sea, 
But  the  Will-o'-the-Wisp  of  the  desert 

Is  a-beckoning  to  me. 

I  know  that  others  both  skilled  and  bold 
Have  taken  this  trail  before, 
Hunting  long  for  the  yellow  gold, 
Only  to  come  back  worn  and  sore  — 
That  is,  if  they  ever  came  back  at  all  — 

And   though   all   this   I   know, 
When  the  Will-o'-the-Wisp  of  the  desert  calls 

I  pack  my  jack  and  go. 

The  cactus  grows  and  flaunts  its  rose 
Beside  the  trail  my  burro  takes. 
The  hot  day  comes,  the  hot  day  goes, 
Desert  night  wind  the  whole  world  shakes. 
Then  a  dancing  light  in  the  velvet  dark 

Afar  on  the  waste  I  see, 
And  I  know  that  the  desert  Will-o'-the-Wisp 

Is  flashing  his  light  at  me. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       171 

His  elfin  light  is  of  fancy  made. 

Yet  he  jeers  at  me  like  a  clown 

By  flashing  scenes  of  liquid  shade 

On  the  noon  sky,  but  upside  down, 

For  he  carries  slides  with  his  lantern  by  day 

To   tease  me   maliciously. 

Though  I  know  he's  the  Will-o'-the-Wisp,  yet  I 
swear 

That  he's  holding  a  cup  to  me. 

He  has  no  form,  he  has  no  face, 
He  has  only  a  dancing  light 
To  lure  me  on  from  place  to  place  — 
To  every  place  but  the  right. 
Though   I   stumble   and   faint   and   burn   with 
thirst, 

I  follow  hopefully, 
For  the  Will-o'-the-Wisp  of  the  desert 

Is  waving  his  light  to  me. 


PINE  AND  CHAPARRAL 


GROWING  PAINS 

With  her  smooth  egg-shaped  stone  pestle 
poised  in  her  sinewy  brown  hand,  with  the 
evening  meal  half-mortared  on  the  squaw  rock 
where  she  sat,  while  her  lord  and  master  lolled 
beside  a  little  twinkling  fire,  she  gazed  on  the 
clear,  soft  western  sky  shading  from  rose  up 
to  the  deepest  azure,  and  the  sharp  silhouettes 
of  branching  trees,  their  limbs  and  leaves  a 
graceful  tracery  stamped  black  against  the  dy 
ing  light,  gave  birth  in  her  primitive,  misty 
brain  to  a  delicate  idea.  With  finest  sinew,  be 
fore  the  fire,  she  copied  the  dainty  pattern  she 
saw  in  the  sunset  glow. 

She  was  beaten  next  day  by  her  irate  man, 
for  she  had  forgotten  his  dinner  in  copying  na 
ture's  laciness. 

But  art  had  advanced  a  step. 


175 


PINES 

They  are  strong,  those  pines.  Their  soft 
and  low-toned  converse  is  the  pent  up  quietness 
of  force,  and  even  when  some  raging  fire,  sweep 
ing  the  country  with  a  devastating  flame,  has 
laid  them  low,  straightway  they  spring  again. 
Their  shade  is  dark  and  cool,  their  every 
whisper  music,  their  quiet  green  a  blessed  thing 
to  hot  sun-smitten  eyes,  and  the  aid  they  give 
to  man  is  far  beyond  all  computation  in  a 
land  where  other  forests  do  not  thrive.  They 
are  not  cheerful  in  a  common  way ;  their  looks 
are  somber,  and  their  shade  too  deep.  But 
there  is  a  quiet,  a  reposeful  peace  beyond  light 
joy,  and  when  you  seek  for  that,  the  pines 
stretch  forth  their  shadowed  arms  to  fold  you 
closely  in.  The  bed  they  offer  is  the  softest, 
given  of  their  best;  their  shelter  of  the  closest, 
when  winter  storms  assail.  Their  breath  is 
sweet  to  tired  lungs,  and  where  no  other  tree 
will  grow,  they  rear  their  dark  green  shoulders 
up  above  the  gray-green  chaparral  saving  the 
country  from  the  stain  of  being  but  a  waste  of 
brush.  Where  an  old  placer  dump  would  lie 
an  ugly  scar  on  nature's  face,  springs  up  a 
176 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       177 

clump  of  quiet  straight  brown  boles  holding 
aloft  thick  plumes  of  long  green  needles,  crown 
ing  an  erstwhile  bare  and  rocky  mound  with 
shafts  of  sylvan  beauty.  They  are  not  pretty 
—  far  too  big  for  that.  Their  steadfastness, 
their  calm,  unswerving  growth,  will  shame  all 
littleness,  and  where  the  giants  of  that  mighty 
race  rear  their  proud  tops  in  lofty  majesty, 
drinking  in  sunlight  from  the  blue  above  to 
ward  which  they  are  advancing  by  just  grow 
ing,  or  where  they  stand  like  warriors  of  old 
against  the  fiercest  blows,  there  weakness  may 
not  comfortably  dwell,  nor  aught  of  littleness. 


178       THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 


A  MAGIC  PLUME 

A   plume   of   long-leaved   pine. 

How  it  brings  the  pine  trees  to  these  tired  eyes 

of  mine ! 

How   they   towered,   straight   and   tapering, 
Like  a  mighty,  still  brigade, 
Or  like  pillars  in  a  temple, 
With  their  carpet  of  brown  shade. 

A  piny,  long-leaved  plume. 

How  it  opens  into  forest  aisles  the  close  walls  of 

this  room ! 

I  can  see  that  tall  shaft  rearing 
This  green  broom  into  the  blue, 
And  I  see  it  shrink  and  quiver 
As  they  cut  its  great  heart  through. 

A  polished  dark  green  crest 

That    raised    its    long-leaved    needles    sharply 

dark  against  the  West, 
And  stilled  the  sough  and  swish  below, 
When  the  stars  came  forth  to  sing. 
So  proud  'twould  scarcely  sway  to  hear 
The  lower  winds'  whispering. 

O  sturdy  piny  broom ! 

The  sight  of  your  dark  greenness  my  clouded 
thought  illumes, 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       179 

And  you  sweep  away  the  cobwebs 
With  your  needles  long  and  fine, 
For  you  breathe  the  living  spirit 
Of  the  strong,  aspiring  pine. 


A  SILVER  SUNSET 

From  clear,  pale  blue  of  hot  and  normal  day, 
the  pine  clad  western  hills  are  backed  by  haze 
of  luminous  silver  gray  that  shades  up  to  the 
zenith.  No  yellow  color's  there,  no  rose,  no 
blue,  but  all  the  earth  is  bathed  in  spectral 
light,  more  near  akin  to  ghostly  early  moon 
light  than  to  the  tarnished  gold  of  dying  day. 
The  silver-gray  behind  those  western  hills  is 
slowly  changing  to  the  palest  yellow,  through 
which  no  ray  of  the  descending  sun  pierces  to 
earth.  Then,  just  above  that  yellowish  gray 
band,  a  field  of  deepest  azure  shows  where,  on 
wonted  days,  that  azure  would  be  hidden  by 
gold  and  flaming  red.  Above  the  azure  field 
are  long,  thin  clouds  of  silver-gray,  of  amber, 
amethyst.  Above  them,  rosy  clouds,  as  if  the 
sun,  failing  to  reach  the  earth,  would  paint 
his  farewell  on  the  sky.  Where,  on  another 
day,  the  flaming  sunset  colors  fill  the  west, 
that  field  of  deepest  azure  takes  their  place 
to  drop  a  cool,  blue  curtain  down  between 
the  sun's  glance  and  the  sleeping  world,  leav 
ing  it  but  one  fiery  line  of  light  above  the 
180 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      181 

hills;  and  peeping  above  the  curtain  of  deep 
azure  that  has  shut  out  the  long,  thin  clouds 
above  —  those  few  small,  rosy  clouds  shading 
that  line  of  fiery  light  that  outlined  all  the 
western  hills  —  are  shafts  of  luminous  creamy 
cloud  against  the  deep  blue  just  above,  like  the 
glow  from  heaven's  footlights  thrown  upon  its 
azure  curtain. 

Then  night  comes  down.  The  line  of  fiery 
light  above  the  hills  dies  suddenly  and  all  is 
darkest  blue,  while  through  the  needle  meshes 
of  a  twisted  pine  the  sickle  of  a  clear  young 
moon  appears.  It  is  a  silver  sunset. 

The  sun  god's  evening  adios  is  breathed 
sometimes  in  silver  upon  the  desert's  western 
rim,  luminous  gray  and  deepest  blue  taking  the 
place  of  gold  and  flaming  red.  This  I  have 
heard,  and  it  may  be  true,  but  I  have  never  seen 
it  there.  The  silver  sunset  that  I  saw  was  from 
a  hill  behind  an  old,  old  mining  town,  far  from 
my  golden  desert,  and  farther  to  the  west. 
Perhaps  —  who  knows  ?  —  while  I  was  looking 
at  blue  and  silver,  the  desert  sky  was  glowing 
with  red  and  gold. 

My  silver  sunset  was  weird  and  unusual, 
revolutionary,  shocking  one's  mental  tide  into 
new  channels,  and  it  seemed  to  me  as  I  watched 
that  strange,  new  thing,  that  the  mighty  force 
ruling  the  night  and  day,  that  brings  the  light 


182      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

and  shrouds  the  world  in  shadow,  is  sentient, 
with  changing  human  moods  and,  wearying  with 
the  monotony  of  its  unchanging  laws,  it  played 
with  silver  sunsets  for  a  day. 


HEAT    - 

There  is  a  heat  so  great  that  it  seems  still. 
'Tis  not  the  noontide  summer's  sweating  heat 
when  the  sun's  kisses  make  the  spring  com 
plete,  when  faint  winds  sometimes  stir,  and 
when  the  grass  drips  dew  at  dawn,  when  birds 
have  mated  and  are  very  busy,  and  when  the 
wood-dove's  tuneful  call  brings  a  soft  abate 
ment  to  the  torrid  day's  discomfort;  but  when 
the  roads  —  the  color  of  crushed  strawberries 
—  are  fetlock-deep  in  finest  dust,  when  the 
fences  are  all  painted  with  its  powdered,  pink 
ish  red,  and  when  the  leaves  are  bronzed  and 
drooping  with  their  dusty  burdens,  when  broad 
flats  and  upland  clearings  flash  with  the  tar- 
weed's  glowing  gold,  when  yellowish  brown  is 
all  the  grass,  crisped  by  long  months  of  blister 
ing  sun  without  a  drop  of  rain,  when  the  very 
air  seems  burned  and  the  sky  glows  like  a 
bright  blue  flame,  and  only  the  pine  rears  a  tall, 
proud  head  that's  darkly  green  and  cool. 
Then  the  birds'  and  insects'  voices  are  all  mute, 
all  but  the  fat  quail's  laughing  call  that  breaks 
the  waiting  hush.  'Tis  all  a  brown  and  red 

and  yellow  world,  and  with  my  elfin  ears  I  hear 
183 


184      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

the  crisp  and  crackle  of  burned,  sapless  growth, 
as  if  all  nature  but  awaits  a  spark  to  flare  its 
universe. 

The  choking  air  is  still  as  death.  Beyond  a 
chaparral  crowned  hill  a  tall  white  column 
shoots  straight  up  against  the  blazing  blue, 
then  spreads  a  blue-black  thundercloud  of  smoke 
across  the  ridge,  while  dragon's  tongues  of 
glowing  flame  play  along  the  hills'  long  curve, 
against  that  ever  darkening  cloud,  like  foot 
lights  to  a  tragedy.  Then  gray-blue  clouds  of 
smoky  mist  shot  through  with  hazy  sun  fill 
all  the  hollows  and  the  deep  gulch  beds  and 
spread  like  gliding  ghosts  until  the  whole  earth's 
veiled. 

Now  birds  are  screaming,  chattering,  their 
homes  are  burning  up,  the  brush  is  breaking 
where  the  frenzied  deer  are  trampling  through, 
and  startled  rabbits  scurry  past,  while  a  hawk 
cuts  across  my  vision,  its  talons  clutching  a 
smothered  quail.  For  that  ominous  hush  is 
broken  —  the  universe  has  flared. 


GOLD 

A  little  shack  stood  in  the  gulch  on  the  bank 
of  a  dried-up  creek,  the  tarweed  all  about  it 
glowing  golden  in  the  late  September  sun.  In 
front  of  the  shack,  ankle-deep  in  dust,  ran  a 
road  that  was  pinkish-red,  and  it  ran  from  a 
dead  town,  miles  away,  till  it  lost  itself  in  the 
hills.  Sloping  up  from  the  road,  across  from 
the  house,  was  a  hill  that  was  dark  with  pines, 
while  across  the  gulch  was  a  steeper  hill  that 
bore  only  rocks  and  brush.  Up  the  gulch, 
where  it  took  a  sudden  turn,  the  hills  seemed 
to  shut  it  in,  and  down  the  gulch,  between  the 
hills,  a  lovely  vista  lay,  for  the  folding  hills 
from  green  to  blue  melted  softly  into  the  sky. 
In  the  old  creek  bed,  the  seepage  water  lay 
in  silent  pools,  with  alders  arching  over  them, 
keeping  them  dark  and  cool.  Across  the  road 
from  the  little  shack,  beneath  the  dark  pine 
slope,  a  long  flat  stretches  down  the  gulch,  like 
a  huge  step  in  the  hill. 

On   that  big  hill   step,   years   ago   stood    a 

little  tented  town,  and  today,  if  you  dig  in  the 

dusty    road,   you   will   find   old,    smooth-worn 

coins,  some  of  them  bearing  strange  mottoes, 

185 


186      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

some  of  them  oval  in  shape,  and  if  you  pan 
the  dust  of  the  road  you  will  get  a  little  gold, 
for  they  sometimes  spilled  dust  from  the  buck 
skin  sack  which  answered  for  miner's  purse. 
At  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  longest 
summer  day,  the  gulch  lies  deep  in  shadow,  the 
frogs  begin  to  croak,  and  the  gray  mist  steals 
across  the  flat  like  the  ghost  of  that  tented 
town. 

The  shack  was  just  one  big  square  room,  its 
sides,  broad  redwood  boards,  pine  shakes  for 
roof.  A  dobe  fireplace,  at  one  end,  was  topped 
with  a  big  tin  pipe.  Inside,  a  fireboard  hid 
from  view  its  ancient  blackened  throat.  Not 
so  picturesque,  but  warmer,  there  stood  in  one 
corner  a  modern  air-tight  stove.  On  a  small, 
square  home-made  table  was  a  little  coal-oil 
lamp,  and  a  cracker  box  for  cupboard,  nailed 
to  the  redwood  wall,  held  all  his  few  utensils. 
In  one  corner,  piled  newspapers  ran  from  rot 
ting  floor  to  roof  —  they  dated  to  the  '60's 
and  had  been  carefully  preserved.  On  a  rudely 
fashioned  framework  rested  an  ancient,  rusty 
spring,  and  on  the  faded  quilts  that  padded 
this,  an  old,  old  miner  lay. 

The  miner  now  wears  heavy  shoes  and  long 
blue  overalls ;  his  overalls  were  tucked  into  knee- 
high  cowhide  boots.  The  miner  now  goes 
shaven  clean,  and  his  hair,  too,  is  cropped  close ; 
this  miner's  long  beard  swept  his  breast,  and 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       187 

his  hair  was  shoulder-long.  His  friends  had 
long  since  passed  away,  or  gone  to  the  County 
Home,  but  he  had  lived  there  sixty  years  and 
had  sworn  he'd  die  in  the  hills.  The  old  Forty- 
niner  was  keeping  his  word,  for  he  was  dying 
now.  Even  the  manner  of  his  speech  was  that 
of  a  bygone  day,  as  he  turned  to  speak  to  the 
kindly  neighbor  who  attended  to  his  last  wants. 
"  I  reckon  I'm  leavin',  Miss  Lawton,  an'  I 
don't  know  as  I  keer,  fer  the  boys  has  left  me 
plumb  alone,  an'  I'm  ready  ter  jine  their  camp. 
I've  tore  up  earth  fer  sixty  year,  an'  I'm  pore 
as  when  I  come,  fer  I  jist  lived  in  '49  an'  the 
lively  years  arter  that.  I  was  quick  on  the 
trigger  in  them  ole  days,  an'  the  feller  what 
covered  me,  he  had  ter  be  quick,  I  tell  ye  now. 
Ye'll  find  some  specimints  under  my  bunk  I 
tooken  from  my  claims  —  they'll  likely  pan 
right  smart  o'  gold,  an'll  give  ye  a  little  stake. 
They's  all  I  got  fer  sixty  year  o'  grubbin'  in 
the  ground.  I'm  honin'  ter  heft  my  forty- 
five,  ter  feel  its  good  ole  grip,  but  arter  I 
throwed  it  on  the  cuss  that  jumped  my  richest 
claim,  and  the  damn  gun  plumb  missed  fire,  I 
chucked  it  in  the  crick.  It  done  good  sarvice 
in  its  day  when  I  was  a  Vigilante,  but  I  ain't 
never  drawed  it  in  no  low-down  quarrel  yit. 
I  placered  an'  gophered  fer  sixty  year,  an' 
I  ain't  got  nary  dust  —  I  made  it,  God,  I 
found  it !  but  whiskey  and  cards  come  high,  an' 


188      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

flour  fifty  dollars  a  sack,  an'  us  boys  all  hit 
the  pace  —  but  I  placered  an'  tunneled  fer 
sixty  year,  an'  I  ain't  got  left  one  buckskin 
sack  o'  the  good  ole  yellow  gold  — " 

The  neighbor  softly  closed  the  door  and  left 
him  lying  silent  there,  for  his  golden  dream  was 
done.  But  in  through  the  open  window  the 
slowly  sinking  sun  threw  a  kindly  golden 
blanket  over  his  wasted  frame  —  of  the  gold 
that  never  pinches  out. 


NIGHT 

The  breathing  silence  of  the  night  holds  a 
mysterious  strength.  The  pines  are  standing 
straight  and  black  against  the  darkened  sky ; 
the  hills  against  it,  green  by  day,  are  black  and 
shadowy.  The  same  birds  nestle  in  the  trees, 
but  they  are  quiet,  hidden,  and  all  the  stars 
that  through  the  day  have  kept  their  place 
unseen,  are  lighted  now.  No  single  thing  is 
changed,  all  things  are  as  they  were,  save 
that  the  recreative,  silent  mind  of  night  has 
waked.  The  sleeping  night  1  'Twere  better 
far  to  say  the  sleeping  day.  By  day  all  nature 
steadily  works  out  the  scheme  that  night  has 
planned.  The  day  means  action,  but  the  night 
means  force. 

Have  you  not  stood  at  night  in  some  still 
spot,  your  face  turned  to  the  sky,  and  felt  the 
throb  of  mighty  forces  beat  upon  your  brain; 
felt,  too,  the  lift  of  inspiration,  the  spirit's 
clearer  view,  as  though  the  slumbering  mind  of 
day  had  opened  eyes  refreshed,  to  draw  its  cur 
tains,  light  its  lamps,  and  wake  to  clarity  of 
thought,  to  burning  intellect,  to  dreams  that 
189 


190       THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

are  more  vivid  than  broad  daylight's  waking 
life  —  wake  to  strong,  resistless  impulse,  or  to 
still  inspired  emotion  that  is  the  germ  of 
thought* 


A  SANITARIUM 

There  is  a  land  I  know  whose  every  task  is 
deferred  to  maiiana.  No  energy  is  there,  no 
enterprise,  and  yet  in  its  own  sphere  it  is 
working  out  great  nature's  plan  in  the  finest 
of  all  ways.  Dry  gulches  paved  with  boulders 
green  are  shadowed  by  willow  and  water  oak 
and  by  dark,  lofty  pine.  There  the  mountain 
quail  will  jeer  in  the  sunny  light  of  noon,  the 
mountain  lion  cry  at  dusk,  and  the  coyote  bark 
at  night,  while  the  gentle  wood-dove's  cease 
less  call  and  the  owl's  mournful  "  too  whoo," 
add  a  touch  of  gentler  meaning  to  the  voices 
of  the  hills.  There  the  mines  have  all  been 
abandoned  and  the  rancher  cannot  thrive,  and 
where  man  placered  years  ago,  the  wild  has 
come  again.  The  hills  are  velvet  green  with 
brush,  where  they  are  not  dark  with  pine,  the 
sagging,  weather-worn  gray  shacks  are  empty 
and  silent  now,  but  the  sun  shines  gladly  all 
the  time  and  the  sky  is  ever  blue  and  the  men 
that  are  left  all  help  each  other,  for  they  are 
mighty  few. 

In  the  crowded  haunts  of  men,  they  say,  is 
the  place  where  a  man  belongs,  to  measure  his 
strength  with  his  fellows,  to  give  and  take  good 
191 


192      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

blows ;  but  the  clearest  brain  and  the  strongest 
arm  are  brought  to  the  fight  by  those  who  come 
from  where  still  nature  has  armed  them  with 
her  strength,  not  by  murdering  beautiful  feath 
ered  things  nor  the  furred  ones  of  the  wilds,  but 
the  strength  that  is  born  of  silence  and  of  self- 
reliant  thought.  Each  one  of  us  needs  to  draw 
aside  and  talk  to  his  soul  a  spell  in  God's  wide 
room  where  the  walls  are  green  or  gray  or 
purple  dark,  and  the  ceiling,  a  blaze  of  sunny 
blue,  or  a  darkened,  starry  sky,  while  the  tap 
in  his  bath  is  running  ever  • —  the  ceaseless  song 
of  the  brook.  A  herd  of  cattle  shambles  by 
wrapped  in  a  cloud  of  dust,  the  lizards  flash  in 
the  sun,  and  the  blue  clad  cowboy  riding  be 
hind  dwells  in  that  big  room,  too.  Through 
a  cleft  in  the  hills  a  single  tree  shines  with  the 
sun's  gold  splendor,  while  the  rest  of  the  gulch 
is  evening  dark.  The  vista  beyond  a  red,  red 
road,  arched  over  with  big  dark  pines,  shows 
waves  of  green  hills,  fold  on  fold,  with  blue 
beyond,  then  snow. 

What  are  the  sights  that  make  men  pause  and 
talk  to  their  souls  in  peace?  I  cannot  tell,  for 
I  do  not  know.  But  it  seems  to  me  that  a  long, 
long  look  into  that  big,  still  room  brings  to 
the  eye  a  wider  vision,  and  the  whisper  of  good 
borne  on  the  breeze  that  sighs  through  its  open 
door  is  wafted  straight  from  the  peace  and 
strength  that  abide  in  its  varied  beauty. 


SUNSHINE  HILL 

It  rears  a  noble,  rounded  curve  against  the 
northern  sky,  its  breast  green  velvet  with 
chaparral,  its  ridge  laced  deep  with  pines,  and 
a  patch  in  its  chaparral  here  and  there  shows 
sun-dried,  yellow  grass.  The  first  flash  of  sun 
down  the  gulch  in  the  morning  will  kiss  it  a 
cheery  Good  Day,  and  at  dusk,  when  the  hills 
are  in  deep  green  shadow  and  the  beds  of  the 
gulches  are  black,  its  patches  of  bleached  grass 
shine  like  gold  and  its  chaparral  looks  a  golden 
green,  for  the  sun  shines  there  still,  not  with  a 
blazing  radiance,  as  in  the  flashing  heat  of  day, 
but  with  soft,  mellow,  red-gold  light  —  a  ten 
der,  loving,  lingering  light,  as  though  'twere 
loth  to  leave.  And  when  the  sun  has  slipped 
away,  since  go  it  must  at  last,  when  the  shin 
ing  breast  of  the  hill  is  clothed  in  dusky  green- 
black  shadow,  one  pine  stands  forth  on  its  dark 
ening  slope,  a  torch  of  vivid  light.  It  is  the 
sun's  farewell. 

Men  call  that  Sunshine  Hill.  When  all  the 
country  is  drenched  with  rain,  when  the  hills 
about  have  a  gloomy  look,  'tis  the  only  smiling 
thing  in  sight,  for  the  sunlight  seems  to  have 
pierced  its  heart  and  warmed  it  through  and 
193 


194       THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

through  until  it  gives  forth  a  cheery  glo* 
through  mist  or  driving  rain.  Compared  with 
its  generous,  vital  glow,  the  gleam  of  the  pre 
cious  yellow  metal  that  lies  deep  hid  in  its  smil 
ing  bosom  is  but  a  dull  and  tawdry  thing. 
When  the  slopes  and  gulches  about  are  dark, 
when  the  sun  has  slipped  from  its  highest  crest, 
he  lights  that  pine  as  a  torch  and  sign  that  he 
will  come  again,  and  I  hear  him  say  in  his  sunny 
way,  as  he  finally  slips  from  sight, 

"  Remember,  I'm  shining  somewhere  now,  and 
whatever  stands  betwixt  you  and  me,  I'll  come 
again  to  shine  on  you.  And  so,  my  friend, 
Good  Night." 


WHERE  THE  GULCHES  RUN  WITH 
RAIN 


DROUGHT 

The  silent  hills  capped  with  tall,  scraggy  pines 
And  bearded  o'er  with  brushwood,  look  upon 
The  sleeping,  sunny  valley, 
Through  which  the  road,  beside  the  dried  up 

creek, 

Meanders  lazily  till  where  two  slopes 
Drop  down  to  meet  it,  overlap,  and  hide 
Its  gleaming,  dusty  ribbon. 
The  horses  switch  their  tails  beneath  the  trees. 
The  hogs  root  where  they  find  a  spot  that's 

green. 

Hot  haze  is  over  all. 

The  sheriff  throbs  by  in  his  swift  machine, 
Answering  grim  and  most  unwelcome  calls. 
No  more  for  him  the  bronco, 
No  heavy  forty-fives  hang  from  his  belt, 
No  rifle's  strapped  behind  his  saddle  flap, 
But  in  his  side  coat  pocket 
A  black  and  shining  deadly  automatic, 
Which  he  ne'er  uses  save  to  put  a  hole 
Through  quail  or  scuttling  rabbit. 
And  when  the  sheriff's  gone,  the  tiny  draft 
He  made  in  passing  and  the  swirls  of  dust 
Add  to  the  throbbing  heat. 
197 


198       THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

The  gum  drips  in  the  heat  from  sweating  pines. 
The  cattle  are  all  quiet,  and  the  dogs 
With  lolling  tongues  are  still. 
The  dull  red  gashes  in  the  mountain  slopes 
Run  down  to  meet  the  rising  yellow  waves  of 

sun-parched  grass. 

The  gulches  are  all  dry,  and  the  main  creek, 
That  in  its  freshet  time  will  float  a  horse, 
Can  now  be  crossed  dry-shod. 
And  in  the  coolest  spot  in  all  the  town 
Around  a  table  used  for  cards,  sit  six 
Who  play  at  poker  glumly. 

There's  the  teamster  come  to  shoe  his  mules. 
The  cowman,  too,  to  have  his  saddle  stiched. 
Their  throats  are  dry  with  dust. 

And  there's  the  miner  come  to  buy  his  grub, 
And  there's  the  millman,  he  who  crushes  ore. 
Quartz  dust  is  choking  them. 

There  is  the  drummer  from  a  far-off  town, 
And,  last,  the  keeper  of  this  large,  bare  place  — 
The  Palace  Sample  Room. 

Behind  the  bar,  from  well-nigh  empty  shelves, 
Soft  drinks  smile  down  on  them  with  wicked 

grin. 

They  are  the  saddest  men  in  all  the  world, 
For  the  damn  town  is  dry. 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO       199 


A  MINER'S  LAMENT 

The  drivin'   rain 
Beats  on  the  pane. 
An'  through  the  roof, 
Not  high  aloof, 
The  water  makes 
Its  way  'tween  shakes 
That  air  too  dry 
Ter  close  the  sky. 
The  pine  trees  roar 
Outside  my  door. 
The  wind  sweeps  round 
With  swishin'  sound, 
An',  in  its  lull, 
The  gulches  full 
Go  roarin'  by 
With  voices  high. 
Out  of  reason 
This  wet  season. 
'Tain't  yet  due 
Fer  a  month  or  two, 
An'  all  this  wet 
Gives  me  regret  — 
My  wood  ain't  cut 
Fer  the  winter  yet. 


200      THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 


CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE 

Down  in  the  gulch  is   a  patch  of  shadow 

At  the  foot  of  a  spreading  water  oak 

Where  an  icy  flowing  spring  wells  up. 

Here  gather  the  insect  folk. 

The  water-soaked  earth  is  inky  black 

In  the  narrow  trough  that  the  spring  has  made. 

The  sunlight  filtering  through  the  leaves 

Weaves  a  black  and  gold  brocade. 

Here's  where  the  fading  sunlight  throws 

His   farewell   lance   of   golden   light. 

Here's  where  the  watercresses  grow, 

Edging  the  spring  with  green  leaves  bright. 

Here  buzzes  the  busy  yellow  jacket 

And  assorted  flies  with  their  thousand  eyes 

Given  to  them  to  watch  their  foes, 

Since   they   form   the  food  of   a  multitude. 

And  the  bee  will  come  with  his  drowsy  hum, 

And  as  soft  as  a  sigh,  a  butterfly, 

And  the  water-bugs  zigzag  on  the  pool, 

While  big  blue  dragon-flies  flash  by. 

They  are  hovering  all  in  the  sun's  last  lance. 

As  they  buzz  and  dart  and  drone  and  float, 

Or  drift  like  a  lightsome  feather, 

Their  song  I   can  hear  with  a  straining  ear, 

They  are  singing  it  all  together, 


THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO      201 

"  We  will  work  and  play  through  our  little  day 
And  we'll  follow  the  sun  till  the  day  is  done." 

When  the  lance  of  golden  light  has  gone 

And  the  lingering  sun  has  set, 

The  cricket  and  the  katydid 

Dance  a  vocal  minuet, 

And  as  they  scrape  and  argue  together 

It  seems  I  can  hear  them  say, 

"  Those  foolish  day  things  fly  about 

And  go  to  bed  when  the  light's  put  out. 

They  don't  know  the  way  to  live  just  right, 

For  the  time  to  be  up  and  about  is  night." 

Bancroft  Library 

An  Alabama  woodchuck  sat  on  the  fence. 

His  long  and  powerful  beak 

He  slowly  wiped  on  the  topmost   rail. 

Then  I  thought  I  heard  him  speak, 

"  That  was  a  fine  dinner.     I  feel  pretty  good.       * 

Those  bugs  that  fly  through  the  sunny  day 

Were  nice  and  hot,  and  that  yellow  j  acket 

Had  just  the  right  tang  of  the  pepper-pot. 

The  honey  on  that  big  bee  was  sweet, 

While  that  cricket  and  katydid,  cool  dessert, 

Just  made  my  meal  complete." 

He   scratched  his   beautiful   crimson  head, 

Then  he  worked  his  beak  with  complacent  air. 

When  a  lurking  rancher,  hunting  him, 

Found  him  and  shot  him  there. 

"  Dog-gone  yer  hide,  I've  hunted  ye 


202       THE  LAND  WHERE  THE  SUNSETS  GO 

Fer  two  hours  an'  a  half, 

An'  ye  sit  there  with  yer  belly  full  o'  apples 

On  my  orchard  fence  an5  laff. 

After  spilin'  my  apples  on  every  tree 

Ye're  as  round  as  an  apple  yerself,  ye  be. 

With  yer  sassy,  laffin',  impudent  air 

Ye're  as  fat  an'  well  fed  as  a  millionaire. 

I've  watched  ye  fer  two  months  past, 

An'  I've  wasted  the  mornin'  a  huntin'  ye, 

But,  darn  ye,  I  got  yer  at  last !  " 

•  •••••• 

He  had  been  one  of  the  apple  thugs 
But  this  time,  alas !  it  was  only  bugs. 


A  TOAST 


A  TOAST 

Here's  to  the  care-free  cowboy 
With  spurs  six  inches  long, 
Here's  to  his  chaps  of  Angora, 
Here's  to  his  made-up  song! 

Here's  to  his  little  bronco 
Who  carries  him  through  the  brush. 
Here's  to  the  Palace  Bar  Room 
Where  his  cash  goes  when  he's  flush! 

Here's  to  the  young  homesteader 
Who's  clearing  his  land  of  rock. 
Here's  to  his  mortgage  at  the  store 
On  land   and  buildings    and   stock! 

Here's  to  the  manzanitas 

And  the  land  whereon  they  grow. 

Here's  to  eternal  sunshine, 

Here's  to  eternal  snow, 

Here's  to  the  blazing  desert, 

Here's   to   the  mountains   cold, 

Here's  to  the  sunny  land  so  new, 

And  here's  to  its  pines  so  old! 
205 


ADIOS 


WHERE  THE  TRAILS  PART 

Sometimes  at  the  crossing  of  the  trails,  a 
fellow  wanderer,  riding  a  different  road,  will 
give  and  get  the  High  Sign  and  pass  on. 

Stranger,  you  have  ridden  a  little  way  with 
me  and  I  have  shown  you  what  my  eyes  have 
seen  upon  this  trail.  And  if,  at  the  next  cross 
ing,  your  bridle  hand  is  itching  to  swing  your 
horse's  head  into  that  faint  trail,  so  little  used, 
and  if  you  hear  at  its  far  end  a  tiny  fairy 
song,  why,  then,  you  are  no  stranger,  but  my 
brother.  Don't,  however,  go  following  the 
Will-o'-the-Wisp.  You'll  get  off  the  trail  if 
you  do. 

Is  my  bronco's  name  Pegasus?  Not  by  a 
damn  sight!  He  bucks  sometimes,  but  not  so 
bad  as  that.  He's  just  a  little  ornery  son  of 
a  gun,  an'  his  name's  Will-o'-the-Wisp.  I  call 
him  Bill  for  short. 


Adios 


209 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 

PAGE 

A  TOAST  .      . 203 

AL  DESIERTO 119 

ASPIRATION 51 

BARK  OF  THE  COYOTE,  THE 152 

BOOTLEG         28 

CIRCUMSTANTIAL  EVIDENCE 200 

CIVILIZATION 57 

COMPENSATION 62 

DAWN 60 

DEAL  IN  LEATHER,  A 14 

DESERT  CHILDREN 154 

DESERT  DAY,  A  .      .      . 121 

DESERT  GARDEN,  A 64 

DESERT  NIGHT,  A '     .  124 

DESERT  WITCHCRAFT      .      .      .      .      .      .      .168 

Do  You  REMEMBER? 3 

DROUGHT 197 

FOR    SHERIFF 92 

FORTY-NINESS,  THE 81 

GOLD         .      . 185 

GOPHER  HOLES 108 

GREASER,  THE 9 

GROWING  PAINS 175 

HANGMAN'S  TREE 129 

HEAT .      .      .183 

His  BEST  BELOVED  SON 37 

IGNORANCE 71 

I'M  GOING  TO  THAT  COUNTRY  OVER  THERE  149 
INDIAN  AND  THE  PRINCESS,  THE     .      .      .      .159 

LOST  OPPORTUNITY 112 

MAGIC  PLUME,  A 178 

MESSAGE,  A 138 

MINER'S   LAMENT,  A 199 

MINER,  THE 105 


PAQK 

MISSOURI  MEERSCHAUM,  A 85 

MOUNTAIN  Music 163 

NEVADA  IDYL,  A .      .     24 

NIGHT 189 

NIMROD 165 

PAINT-BOX,  THE 128 

PATIENCE .     74 

PINES • 176 

PINON 88 

PROSPECTIN'         114 

RECKLESS  DESERT  WIND,  THE       .      .      .      .137 

RECONCILIATION        ........     31 

REVERSION      .      .      .      .      .      ....      .      18 

RUNNING  WATER      .      .      *     .      ....    135 

SANITARIUM,  A 191 

SILVER  SUNSET,  A  .  .  ,  .....  180 
SKINNER'S  DAY,  A  .  .  .  .  .-  .  .  .  44 
SKINNER,  THE  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  53 

SUNSHINE  HILL 193 

SURVIVAL  OF  THE  UNFIT 68 

THAT  COUNTRY  OVER  THERE 101 

THIRST 126 

THROUGH  A  WINDOW 76 

VARIETY 77 

WHAT  THE  WIND  WHISPERED  .      .      .      .      .145 

WHERE  THE  TRAILS  PART   ......   209 

WIND  IN  THE  SAGE,  THE     .     .      .      .      .      .142 

WILL-O'-THE-WISP     .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .    170 

WOOING  WIND,  THE 140 


